High Treason
by Tomo Trillions
Summary: [Completed 1/27/02] [Crowley/Aziraphale slash] An Aziraphale Adventure! Hell catches up with everyone's favorite delinquent demon, and Crowley learns that his angel has rather handy swordsmanship skills and a tendency to ignore the rules.
1. Realization

Title: High Treason   
Rating: PG-13   
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale   
Disclaimer: I-don't-own-them-if-I-did-less-talk-more-sex-Neil-Gaiman-and-Terry-Pratchett-have-that-right-you-know-the-drill.   
Notes: This is gonna be a long one, I'm afraid. ^^; The actual plot for this story has been sitting on my hard drive for several weeks, possibly even months, but my muses would simply not work on it. I've tried to start this story twice, and each time failed - third time is the charm, so let's hope this pulls all the way through. 

Advice? Criticism? I'd love to hear from you. 

~Tomo Trillions   
www.amberstone.net   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com 

~~~~~~ 

He was vaguely aware, in some dark, small portion of his mind, that he shouldn't _enjoy_ the angel's company quite so much as he did. It was dangerous enough to call Aziraphale a friend, but to honestly _mean_ it was something else quite entirely.... All in all, Anthony J. Crowley decided, he was in a bit of a spot. 

Because when you started having dreams that involved your _'friends'_ that shouldn't be such at all and chocolate body paint, usually you were either psychologically damaged or else..... 

Or else nothing. 

He had decided he was crazy. _Very_ crazy. And he had been for quite some time now - so he deftly shoved the dream - no, the _nightmare_ - out of his train of thought and didn't look back as it bounced to a halt alongside the proverbial tracks. 

"Crowley?" Aziraphale, however, continued to stare at the demon from beneath dirty blonde bangs, eyes almost luminescent in the darkness, waiting for an answer that Crowley didn't quite have. He licked his lips. Why _had_ he woken up from just such a dream, gnawing on his pillow, in Aziraphale's _bed_? 

The last thing he could remember was feeling someone hit him in the jaw. 

"I must have been drunker than I thought," he groaned, lifting a hand to his temple. With a thought, the hangover dissipated and Crowley smirked sheepishly into his fist. 

"I should think so," Aziraphale murmured, sitting back against the pillows, his expression filled with disapproval. He was wearing flannel pajamas, plaid, with an 'A' monogrammed on the front. The sight made Crowley suppress a giggle behind the same closed fist that was guarding his smile. The angel was just....so..... damned..... "you started a brawl and passed out in record time. I had to _carry_ you out to the corner and call a cab!" he added that last part indignantly, as if he couldn't believe the demands Crowley made on his angelic time. 

"Then my Bentley...." 

"Still at the parking garage." 

Crowley knew perfectly well that his car would have no tickets stuffed beneath the wipers, was not parked near anything illegal, and would be looked over by any sort of gangster imaginable. Therefore, naturally, it was all true. "Damn," he hissed. "Now I have to go get it back. Why didn't you drive me home?" 

No answer. The demon swore under his breath and rolled over, staring for a moment at the angel by his side. "Aziraphale-?" 

Aziraphale was frozen in place, mouth half-open, his eyes focused on Crowley's face - though they were unblinking and his lips silent. He looked for a moment like a three-dimensional photograph, or a statue, or one of those new-age American commercials with lots of floating leaves and camera panning - Crowley reached out, startled, and tried to touch the angel's face. 

His fingertips went right through. 

"_All hail Satan._" 

"What the...?" 

"Crawly, really, you should learn to keep your hands to yourself," That was a hissing, _familiar_ voice. Crowley rolled over again and stared nonplused as Hastur leered at him from the doorway of Aziraphale's bedroom, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

"Come again?" Crowley asked softly, no trace of intimidation in his voice. He had the satisfaction of sending a streak of annoyance racing across Hastur's pinched features. The hellish underling hadn't spoken with Crowley since the whole end-of-the-world affair, but there was certainly no love to be lost between the two of them - not after Crowley came quite close to dousing Hastur in holy water along with his one-time partner. It made for tension in the work place. 

"You know what I'm talking about," the redhead hissed, waving a clawed hand towards the bed. "Look at you....with an angel! It's _disgusting_!" Hastur shook his shaggy head and produced something from his robes, deftly dangling it between two fingers. "Hold out your hands, Crawly." 

"What?" Crowley _did_ recognize the object held between Hastur's claws - it had been a while, but lessons in demonic lore tend to stick with a person. Two gems strung together on a golden chain? It could only be- "No way!" 

"The angel is in real time, and you are in a sub-state of such. It would be simple for me to put these on his hands and drag _him_ back to hell in your place. Would you rather that happen?" 

Crowley's mouth opened, shut, and opened again. He emitted something rather like a disgruntled squawk, then shook his head, eyes flickering over Aziraphale's frozen profile. "No.....I understand.... or at least, I think I do. But what's this all about? And why the cuffs?" 

"Cuffs?" Hastur slapped the matching jewels on the back of Crowley's hands - moments later they lit up completely, encircling his wrists with blue light. "I know not-" 

Crowley turned away as a brilliant black light burst from the floor of Aziraphale's room, burning the carpet away in a puff of dark smoke. Beneath that was simply...nothing, an empty hole. Hastur took a few steps forward. "Demon Crawly, Tempter and Cause-er of Mischief, you are being charged with high treason, and plotting - that's bad - may Satan have mercy on your soul. Yeah, right." 

Crowley gulped. "High treason?" 

"Yes." 

"I haven't done anything like that!" 

Hastur gave him a very devious stare. "Consorting with the enemy, Crawly - and I use the word 'consorting' _quite_ loosely." 

"But I-" 

With that, they disappeared into the hole, which fizzled into nothingness moments later and left Aziraphale rubbing his temples in surprise. The angel looked around his now-empty room and frowned faintly. He had a headache, and it was definately not from the drinking the night before. ".....Crowley?" 

~~~~ 

Hell, his demonic counterpart was discovering at that very moment, is much more imposing if you're being dragged in on the inside of a cage constructed of human bone, with leering skulls and glowing eyes following your every move. Crowley had never _been_ in trouble like this before. He had _never_ been cuffed and cackled at. Usually when he did return to hell, it was on legitimate business and the whole underworld seemed quite a bit more friendly than this. 

His cage was rocking back and forth, Hastur was flying before him and there were several members of the demonic horde at their tails. Crowley leaned against the cage bars and peered out, feeling a bit depressed. 

Hell seemed to be quite a bit nastier than Earth. And to think, when he had first been assigned to the mortal plane, he had been dismayed at leaving this realm! "The grass is always greener," he muttered. Except that Hell had no grass, and the humans were making short work of their own natural resources. He hoped that Heaven was taking care of itself, or else there wouldn't be any nice-looking places left to enjoy. 

Nice places. He liked the Ritz, it had a nice view, and Aziraphale's bookshop was alright, in a musty sort of way. Crowley's flat looked alright, but it wasn't quite as enjoyable as some other spots on Earth. The Bahamas! He was fond of the Bahamas. 

In fact, to be honest, he was rather fond of Earth. He missed it, a bit, as he looked over the rolling planes of red and black buildings and smog-belching pipes, the occasional tower of flame, and the massive Citadel of Sin that rose in the center of it all. It was noisy and filled with crime, hate, pain - it was suffering, it was the antithesis of Heaven and it was what he stood for... It was a massive, endless city. 

But it was not _home_. 

At length the cage slowed and Hastur appeared again, eyes and teeth gleaming as he spoke. "You alright back there, Crawly?" 

Crowley said nothing, merely glared at him. It was a_ 'you're an idiot and I hope you know it' _look, and the meaning wasn't lost on Hastur. "Get out of the cart," the other demon hissed, opening the cage door. 

Crowley tripped over Hastur's feet as he was let out, and began looking around the massive hallway they had entered. He recognized it (dimly, it had been so long) as the closest thing Hell had to a Judicial system - and it was more warped than that of some modern-day countries. 

His handcuffs were jerked on and he moved forward obediently onto a dias of tile and stone, which promptly hissed and lifted upwards into another large room. The demon nearly lost his balance, but regained it just as he appeared on the floor of a massive- 

"Holy shit," Crowley hissed. He suddenly felt very small. And very unimpressive. 

The room he had entered was the Court of Hell, a massive gladiator-like structure of stadium seating, all centered around a small patch of stone floor, where Crowley stood on his own. On his left was Beezlebub - it was difficult to tell what he was thinking, but Crowley knew it wasn't anything good at all. On his right, Hastur, who was looking very smug. 

The crowd was full of strangers. It was apt to be, Crowley supposed, after six thousand years away from home, yet somehow the sheer amount of strange faces made him want to shrink into the woodwork. 

He was in his human body, his everyday, black haired, snake eyed appearance that had never been questioned by humanity - but would appear weak to anybody in the audience. Quickly he tried to change into something remotely more impressing, but discovered he could not. 

"Crawly," came a booming voice. Crowley looked up, like a deer caught in the headlights. "You have been szzzzummoned to the Courtszz of Hell on chargezzzs of High Treazzson againszzt Hiszzz Evil Greatneszzzs, Szzzatan himszzzelf. How do you plead?" 

How did he plead?! To what? And did it make any difference at all whether or not he tried to defend himself? "Um. Sir. It would be helpful if I understood the charges," Crowley settled for that, glaring as defiantly as he could at Beezlebub (he assumed that figure was the speaker, anyway). It was difficult enough - he felt like he was going to be sick. 

"That szzzhould be obviouszzz, Crawly," the voice hissed. "Your actionszz with the Angel, formerly of the Easzztern gate, called Azziraphale." 

~~~~ 

He had searched the bookshop once, from the lowest shelf to the highest nook, and found neither hide, nor hair, nor scale of his demonic counterpart, save one little note. There was a massive hole that reeked of darkness burnt into the floor of his room, the carpet still sizzling when the angel had rolled out of bed and burned his feet on it. When he had noticed the inverted pentagram still hazy on the wood beneath the rug, he had completely understood. 

Crowley had gone Down Below. 

That was not unusual. However, he had simply disappeared out of the bedroom, and that was _not_ normal at all. 

Aziraphale prepared himself a cup of tea and settled on the couch, thinking. Over all, his gut feeling was that something was wrong, and should be investigated - Crowley was a friend, and despite his position and background, he had never once left Aziraphale hanging - not like this, anyway. However... if Crowley had been suddenly called back, there could be a real reason that he had not explained to Aziraphale. 

And interfering with whatever schedule the demons had in mind was not a smart idea for someone who was perfectly happy as a member of the angelic host. 

He took a sip of his tea, which was still warm, and tasted perfect. As an angel, there was absolutely nothing Aziraphale could do to contact Crowley when he was in _that realm_.. Hell was out of his reach in every way possible. 

He wasn't sure how demons ran their show down in the Inferno. Aziraphale had one told Crowley of his personal interpretation of Hell - flaming pits, steam, fog, and Crowley had laughed. 

There really wasn't any reason to worry, Aziraphale knew. Crowley was a demon, and an old demon at that, which meant that he was powerful and more than likely respected...if demons could feel such a thing. If he was in Hell, he was in his element, and could take care of himself. 

Aziraphale nodded. Worrying would do him no good. It would be best to keep himself occupied while Crowley was gone. 

He stared down into his tea. Maybe he would visit some old friends...   


~~~~   


It hadn't gone very well. 

No, no it hadn't. 

Crowley - now Crawly, once again - sighed, the sound hissing between his fangs, the only noise in the darkened cell. It had seemed a good idea, at the time, to deny his charges and put up a good defense - but in retrospect he supposed it made him look about as guilty as a kitten that had gotten into the cream - or in the demonic perspective, a dog that had been drinking out of the toilet. 

There was a collar around his neck that prevented him from changing his form, or using any of his more handy demonic abilities, and the cell he was in had neither bars nor doors, nothing that he could sneak through. 

He had forgotten how boring life could be without simple things like opposable thumbs. Coiling quietly in on himself, Crowley sank into a pit of thought - far more dangerous, he mused wryly, than anything his superiors could have dished out. 

_Love_. How could they accuse him of _love_? 

Why hadn't he been _revolted_ by the thought? 

Scales slipped across scales as he shifted silently. Love was not something demons were allowed to feel. In fact, he didn't think himself *_capable_* of such an emotion... Wasn't that one of the reasons he had fallen from grace in the first place? 

It hurt in a strange, nagging way to be accused of something like this. Hell had always been his backer, his supporter, even if Satan himself barely did enough to be called that - maybe an order here and there, a demand that something be done - but Hell itself was a powerful ally, one that Crowley was well used to having on his side. Six thousand years in it's service, and now they were calling him a traitor, and he was here, locked in a tiny cell instead of enjoying himself out in the wilder clubs? 

And all because he loved an angel. 

.....er, because they _thought_ he loved an angel. 

He hissed softly in the darkness, and it was a very lonely sound. 


	2. Friendship

Title: High Treason   
Rating: PG-13   
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale   
Disclaimer: I-don't-own-them-if-I-did-less-talk-more-sex-Neil-Gaiman-and-Terry-Pratchett-have-that-right-you-know-the-drill.   
Notes: Chapter two. More angst. More amusement. I hope. In other news, Discworld is cool. 

~Tomo Trillions   
www.amberstone.net   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com 

~~~~~~   


"...and that's just how it happened," Aziraphale sighed faintly, staring into his tea. "All the proof I have is the marking on my floor, but.... It's real. And I'm just not sure what to do about this." 

Anathema Device Pulsifer gave Aziraphale a very long, measured look, before glancing across the table at her husband, who squirmed slightly in his chair, wearing an expression that clearly told her they were getting in over their heads, collectively. "Geez, Aziraphale, that's quite a story. He just disappeared without a word?" 

A miserable nod greeted that question. 

"How long ago was this, anyway?" 

"Two weeks. I'm probably overreacting," the angel said, apologetically, not admitting that these fourteen days had gotten harder and harder, until - restless and desperate - he had reached out in the direction of the Pulsifers. "but I'm worried.... He had to have gone back on his own free will, or I..." 

Newt was resting his chin on the palm of one hands, watching the angel across from him detached-ly. At one point in his life he would have taken the words of the young-and-well-kept English bookseller currently sitting at his dining room table and claiming to be a member of the Holy Host as utter nonsense. 

That time was long past, and now he greeted the heavenly being before him by offering to serve up some small cake with the tea his wife had prepared. "Well, they wouldn't be upset with him unless they had a reason. I wouldn't let it get to you." 

"Um." Aziraphale looked horribly guilty. "That's the thing, though." 

"Huh?" 

"There might BE a reason." Clink-clink-clink, he stirred more sugar into his tea which, Newt noticed, was still warm and full, despite the way the angel had been knocking it back. 

Judging by the blonde's expression... "It has to do with you, doesn't it?" Newt wondered aloud, and Aziraphale blushed faintly. 

"Yeah. You see, Crowley and I have been...friends...for a long time. Several millennia, really, and in that time we've reached a sort of...well, an Agreement. A...halfway point that allows both of us to win, while neither one really gets anywhere. Kind of like a compromise." 

"I...see." Newt had been expecting Aziraphale to admit that he was as gay as he looked, and when that went on unsaid, he coughed a bit to clear his throat. "So you think his superiors might have some sort of problem with this?" 

"Well, I'm no demon," the angel sighed, "but I've been a bit worried myself about what would happen if the Metatron - you remember him - got wind of it. I can only expect that his side would feel the same way... only probably much worse. May I hold the baby?" 

Anathema nodded, holding the young girl out to Aziraphale, who scooped her up with the first smile Newt had seen on his face all day. Neither he nor Anathema had known WHAT to think when an angel turned up on their doorstep - it had been five years since the would-be Armageddon, and in that time all they had received from Aziraphale was a annual hand-made Christmas card. "I think she likes you," Anathema offered, helpfully.   
"Most kids do," said Aziraphale. The child in his arms giggled at the sound, and Aziraphale's expression softened like butter in a microwave. 

"My," Anathema murmured, looking meaningfully at Newt. "If we had kept that second book of prophecies, we would probably have been able to help you more, Aziraphale." 

"There was a second book of prophecies?!" 

"Yeah. My dearly departed ancestor left it for our care, but Newt and I elected to toss it out. Too much work, keeping up with a book like that. We gave it away." 

"My. I should have liked to see that," Aziraphale sighed. "Good for my book collection. But...my problem..." 

"It sounds like you need some way to check on him. Does he carry a pager?" 

The angel looked blank, an expression that was reflected onto the face of the baby in his arms. "A pager?" 

"Newt! As if a pager would work in Hell..." 

"It was an honest question," Newt said defensively. "Is there anyone you could ask about him?" 

"Not on this plane," the angel sighed. "Only someone in Heaven with relatively high security clearance... or else someone working with Hell. And neither one is available to me..." 

Anathema blinked. "You couldn't ask someone up there?" 

The angel paused. "Well... I..." 

"Do you or don't you want to know what happened to Crowley?" Anathema waved a hand, and the baby in Aziraphale's arms cooed appreciatively as she played with the tips of Aziraphale's ponytail. "Take the initiative! Go get 'em!" 

"I've tried so hard to keep a low profile since that lousy end of the world mess," the angel mumbled feebly, staring at the child in his arms. The baby sniffed a bit. "Neither side was saying much to us, but if they did have something to tell me, I doubt it would be anything good." 

"Isn't Heaven supposed to be all forgiving, full of all encompassing love?" 

"You haven't met the Metatron on a bad day." 

Newton blinked. "Oh. Well, what are your other options?" 

Aziraphale looked thoughtful. He had really only visited the Pulsifer family because, to be honest, they were the only people on the planet that he knew well enough to talk to. As far as he knew, Crowley didn't have any human friends that he might have spoken with, the only places that he owned anything of any kind was... "Maybe I should go check out Crowley's flat. He might have left a note or...something." 

"That's a good idea," Anathema said cheerfully. "Why don't you go do that?" 

Aziraphale handed over the baby, and nodded, almost eager to get away from the human family - somehow their closeness just made him feel a tad more lonely than normal. "Thank you very much, Anathema, Newton. You've been most gracious hosts." 

Anathema smiled. "Do you need to call a cab? Newt could drive you into town..." 

"Thank you for the offer, but I believe I'll just fly out." 

"Uh. Oh, yes. And thanks for the Christmas cards-" 

Aziraphale was already gone. 

~~~~ 

It was a nice morning. The sun was peeking over the rims of fluid, tall buildings just as it had every morning since the first Dawn, filling every nook and cranny with its golden light, glittering with almost blinding intensity off the ancient walls and streets of London. 

Things, Aziraphale reflected, were changing. They always did, of course, but... 

Crowley came to mind immediately. Aziraphale tilted his head and wondered how in the world the demon had managed to utterly *_disappear_* like that. 

The steps up to the apartment were coated with several inches of unmarred snow - nobody had visited, not even daring paperboys, the angel guessed, since Crowley had gone missing. Glancing left and right for witnesses and finding none, Aziraphale asked the snow to melt itself in the most polite way possible, and it quickly obliged. Squelching through the resultant puddles, Aziraphale fumbled for his key to the flat and opened the door, squinting into the darkness of the inner rooms. 

The scent of very dead, very decaying plants met his senses, pungent and disgusting, like death with a side of compost. The angel grimaced, blocked off his sense of smell, closing the door behind him and fumbling for the light switch on the wall. 

A hand met his own, and Aziraphale very nearly screamed in surprise as the lights were flicked on, revealing a smirking stranger, wearing one of Crowley's prized leather jackets as if it was one of his own. 

There was a wide, toothy grin, and the figure that nearly radiated evil slid it's sunglasses down the bridge of it's nose. Aziraphale took a step back, lifting his hands in a useless attempt to defend himself. 

"Hallo," said Hastur, looking rather evilly at the angel before him. "You're Aziraphale, right? Why don't you sit down? You and I have... a lot to talk about." 

~~~~ 

Aziraphale blinked twice, and sat down in the chair (one of the sort that seems quite comfortable until you actually lean your full weight into it, and then feels like you're sitting on bag of pine cones...fitting of a demon's unique tastes) that had abruptly appeared next to him in a flashy puff of smoke, as Hastur grinned wickedly and swept his hair back from his face. He didn't look particularly demonic - or at least, if you ignored the pointed ears peeking through his shaggy red-black hair and the eye-catching claws that topped his fingertips. No, other than that, he looked almost friendly. Irish, but friendly. 

He was smiling as the angel looked nervously around the interior or Crowley's apartment, which was...less than pristine. All of the plants that had adorned the shelves and windowsills were wilted and festering with bugs. Any trace of technology had been obliterated, with particular care taken to desecrate what Aziraphale guessed had once been an answering machine. The prized computers and speakers that the apartment's occupant had kept meticulously clean were shattered, scratched, smoking... 

"Why the strange look, angel?" The leering demon tilted his head. "I rather like the change. The former tenant of this building had no appreciation for...my sort of art." 

Aziraphale swallowed. "Former?" 

"Of course...don't tell me that Heaven didn't notify you, _angel_..." The grin split impossibly wider, and Aziraphale cringed, mind racing. "Crawly-" 

"Crowley," the angel automatically responded. 

"...had to be replaced, you see. He was being...inefficient, and a little too nice for any self-respecting demon." 

"Too....nice?" Aziraphale whispered. Crowley, too kind? But he had always been so cruel and malicious... and he had never given in when the angel had tried to nudge him towards redemption... 

Although humanity was rubbing off on him. And.... 

An off-handed wave was followed by a smirking addition. "And there was the _little_ matter of Ligur, of course." 

"Ligur?!" It took Aziraphale a moment to place the name - it was that demon Crowley had...disposed of during the Armageddon scare, wasn't it? "But... that was years ago, why do they care, now?" That even sounded weak to _his _ears. 

"Might as well have been yesterday for all Hell cares," the demon shrugged, hair wafting around his face like a bloody aura. "For our kind, a year is the blink of an eye. Ligur - may the bloody _bastard_ roll over in his grave, I never liked him - was a Duke of Hell, as high a rank as a demon can achieve. Of course," he paused thoughtfully, "if another demon had disposed of him, Hell would write it off as a rivalry-sort-of-death, you know how common those are, but quite honestly, we were suspicious of Crawly at the time, not to mention his whole fumbling of the baby-swapping situation. And using Holy Water! That's worse than death you know, a damned...well... _evil_ thing to do." 

"...Er..." Aziraphale interrupted as meekly as possible, staring up at the demon before him with wide eyes. "But? Crow-....Crawly? Where is he now?" 

"Search me. It doesn't matter, he deserves being wherever he is." Hastur's eyes were narrow with suspicion, his lips curling up to reveal a nasty set of fangs. "It doesn't matter, unless you were as attached to that damned snake as I happen to think you were... _angel_." 

"Close?!" Aziraphale nearly fell out of his chair. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about - and do stop calling me that." 

"What? Angel? Why? You are one, aren't you?" 

But.....that was Crowley's nickname for him.... "I would have you respect me as I respect you, Duke Hastur," Aziraphale sniffed, standing abruptly and moving away from his chair. The penetrating gaze of the demon followed him, and he grimaced prettily as he stepped over a potted plant. "Though I can't see why a high-ranking demon of any sort would care to visit this plane." 

"Consider it a vacation," Hastur grinned toothily. "I won't be here for long, I promise. Do you have an answer for me then, angel Aziraphale?" 

"Crowley and I were indeed companions on this plane for thousands of years, and during the course of those centuries, reached an understanding. But you, being a different entity of course, are not expected to follow such pacts. At least, Duke Hastur, do me the favor of saying what has happened to my former counterpart," in Aziraphale's modest opinion, he did a good job of keeping the tremble out of his voice. 

"Pacts, mmm? Uppity angel, do be sure to watch your tongue," Hastur's eyes glinted, "because information like that could be....deadly, in the wrong hands, for the wrong parties." 

Aziraphale tensed. "Crowley is-" 

"Being punished." 

"For?" 

"Failing to satisfactorily perform his duties, and associating with the enemy." 

"Thank you," Aziraphale nodded, and turned. 

"Wait! You can't go, I'm not done-" 

"You're _quite_ done, thank you, and I most certainly _am_ going," replied the angel at his drollest. 

"Where?! There's no place on earth you can hide from me, you _cowardly_-" 

The angel looked as threatening as he could as he stomped back out into the cold, wet street. "To heaven." 

~~~~ 

~~~~ 

Aziraphale happened to know for a fact that the Metatron was not a nice guy, if 'guy' he could be called. He was the man that ran the show up in Heaven nowadays, giving The Ineffable One more time to watch over the ever-growing number of human lives on earth - the Metatron was rather like a spokesman, a representative, and a lawyer all rolled into one, and while Aziraphale had only met him once (during that sticky End-Of-The-World affair), he rather regretted the necessity of having a Number One Angel running the show, rather than the guy most people would know as God. 

"Back in the old days that never would have been necessary," he muttered, smoothing down his jacket. 

Aziraphale had never quite forgiven the First Fallen Angel for disrupting the peaceful flow of life in Heaven as it had been before humanity had rolled around - one of the reasons he had been happy to take a position on Earth, where purity did not exist enough to be tainted. Aziraphale had been young then, and eager to prove himself, and naturally he had volunteered for a position on the brand-new sparkling feather in the cap of their Creator. 

Crowley was just a perk. 

And so the angel rolled up his carpet for the second time in several hundred years and traced his finger over the slowly disintegrating circle sketched onto the floorboards, fixing up any holes in the outline so that the Holy Magic he invoked wouldn't slip free and run amuck. Warily he reached for his candles, settled the seven designer candleholders around the circle, and walked to the door, locking it quickly. "No 'witchfinders' this time," the angel nodded sagely to himself before stepping into the circle and speaking the Words. 

The response he got was slow in coming and soft initially, but rapidly grew in both volume and intensity - Aziraphale shifted almost nervously as the 'line' opened completely, and the voice of the Metatron unfurled in his ears, while the room was drowned in liquid blue light. "Yes?" 

"Er, this is Aziraphale, you know, the angel working on Earth?" A pause. "I was just calling - er, contacting...you... to ask if I could return to Heaven." 

There was a long pause. "Why?" 

"I need to report my findings to the Great One, Holy Father God." Aziraphale said. 

Another pause, the sort that happens when you call someone and they happen to be busy with something important, and want you to rather discreetly go away, but don't quite feel like saying anything rude. Aziraphale, however, knew that he had a somewhat high priority, being the only angel currently stationed on Earth, so he was sure that the Metatron had time for him.... 

He was wrong. 

"We're afraid that won't be possible, Aziraphale." The voice said, rather grumpily, after a stretched silence. 

"What? Why not?" 

"The Ineffable One is... indisposed at the moment," said the voice, sharply. "We were told not to allow anyone to speak with him." 

Aziraphale didn't quite know what to say. "Um. Then, maybe I could return to Heaven and stay a bit? Catch up with old friends, you know, that sort of thing? I _am_ allowed to return, I just never do... It's in the job description," he added, a bit defensively. 

Another uncomfortable pause filled the blue-tinged air. Aziraphale was beginning to get leery of them. At last, an answer. "You may have a short stay here, but you must return to your duties as soon as possible." The angel broke into a furious grin. 

"Of course." 

With that, Aziraphale felt as if he was being hauled forward - and in a sense he was, thought not quite all of him. With a hefty jerk, his body pulled sharply upwards and he opened his mouth, letting his spirit be ripped away from his physical body, almost painfully... When the whirling sensation ceased, Aziraphale stepped over his crumpled body, dizzy. "Never gets any easier," he winced, and spread his wings. 

~~~~ 

"This is definite proof," Hastur waved a hand thoughtlessly, "That the demon in question, Crawly, had at the v_ery least_ an unsuitable compact with the current angel in residence on the plane of Earth. I have spoken with this Aziraphale, and the words are straight from his own e_ver so holy_ mouth." 

Crowley strained at his handcuffs, wearing his human shape again in order to face the court. When had Hastur...? 

Aziraphale appeared before the court - slightly hazy, almost transparent, but definitely Aziraphale. The angel looked cold, lofty, and very annoyed - the familiar sight hit Crowley like a ton of bricks to the stomach. He...he missed that angel, very much, missed his voice and motions. If Hastur had hurt... 

The image turned, chin uplifting, Aziraphale at his worst (or best, depending on how you looked at it), eternal eyes gazing from the body of a young-ish English bookseller, human, with scars and flaws, a mole or two.... Necessary, those little imperfections, for life on Earth... but still obvious when compared to the brilliance of his eyes. Crowley found the blemishes on perfection suddenly very reassuring. Why had he never noticed that Aziraphale's carefully cultivated human form was such a...work of art? Why had he never seen the thin-rimmed glasses, perched so carefully over deep eyes and thin eyebrows, as what they were - an accessory to a doll-body, created to look as real as possible, but somehow falling short of that. Every facet of the body Aziraphale wore spoke of his personality... It was so... _Aziraphale_. _"...Crowley and I were indeed companions on this plane for thousands of years, and during the course of those centuries, reached an understanding. But you, being a different entity of course, are not expected to follow such pacts. At least, Duke Hastur, do me the favor of saying what has happened to my former counterpart...."_

His heart, if such a thing could, leapt into his throat. Aziraphale was worried, possibly looking for him - hope, then. There was....hope. 

Hope for what? A demon who had fallen in love? A bitter laugh escaped his throat, and several members of the court turned to stare at him as the short bark of laughter lengthened, until he was nearly doubled over, wracking with desperate, hysterical giggles. 

_"Ssssilenzze_!" Crowley bit down on his tongue to still the noises that he couldn't quite control. "I am glad that _sssomeone_ here findzz thizz amuzzing. I wazz afraid it might be taken too _ssseriouzly_, ezzpecially sssince you're up for the _worzzt pozzible punishment_ a demon can rezzieve..." 

Crowley gulped back his laughter. "The worst...?" 

"Crawly, I ssentanze you to oblivion. Firzzt, of courze, you muzt survive the Pitz. Onze that is done, you will be destroyed." 

The snake demon froze in place. "......destroyed......" 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Heaven had changed, too, the angel was dismayed to realize as he reappeared on the heavenly plane and furled his wings up behind him like feathery sails. Just as London had overhauled itself for the umpteenth time back on Earth, Heaven looked like something out of a sci-fi movie's version of the moon. Earth could be seen hanging overhead as always, though the planet was not quite as clean as Aziraphale remembered it. The flowing fluff of clouds and the swirling waters were tinged brown here and there, or was that just his imagination? The orb of Earth, along with the moon and far-distant sun hung in the sky like the styrofoam spheres of a child's model. The horizon of Heaven itself glowed white-purple and was littered with jagged white mountains that leapt in large sweeps upwards towards the sky - that hadn't changed, but the buildings and temples that seemed to line the plaza Aziraphale stood in were certainly new. It was a weird mix of all the cultures Aziraphale could remember seeing, and many that he couldn't recall at all - nostalgia smothered him like a chloroform coated rag. 

Rubbings his eyes, Aziraphale turned on his heel and stared. He then proceeded to pick a direction and walk. 

Masses filled the streets, souls that appeared as glowing wraiths of human forms and angels here and their, with broad wings folded neatly on their backs. The people milled, but didn't generally seem to be accomplishing much - they are or drank, but wherever Aziraphale looked, there were no stores selling things to eat or drink, and nobody seemed to be working. 

He wondered, as the crowds parted before him in waves, if Heaven had always been this boring. 

"Excuse me," the angel-with-a-mission asked the nearest passerby, a human soul with long hair, wearing a toga the likes of which Aziraphale had not seen since Roman times. It stared at him with a blank face as he cleared his throat and murmured a question. "Can you tell me where I might find God?" 

The empty, expressionless soul stared at him with something akin to horror or perhaps shock emanating from it's body, then turned and fled, leaving Aziraphale standing alone before a wide fountain, looking confused. "Pardon," he turned, and spoke to the next-nearest being, another soul, short and childlike. "...but it's quite necessary that I speak to the Great Ineffable One, could you kindly direct me to his - " 

Aziraphale scratched his head as the child disappeared, terrified by his innocent inquiry. That was certainly strange.... "Er," he said at last, "thank you anyway." Wandering further, the angel peered left and right, startled to notice that as he moved, there seemed to be fewer and fewer people out and about on the streets. That is, except for the tall, helmet-wearing angels wielding the typical fiery weaponry of their race that had been following him for the last few minutes. 

Tall, helmet-wearing.... 

The angel shifted and looked over his shoulder, momentarily remembering that he had wings - and in his hurry to fold the flapping pennants of feathers, the five beings behind him appeared at his side, their hands on his shoulders. 

Aziraphale blinked up at the tall, metallic-clad figures and gulped, though it was not at all necessary to do so. 

"By the order of Metatron, you are hereby charged with high treason, Angel Aziraphale. Do follow us."   



	3. Situation

Title: High Treason   
Rating: PG-13   
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale   
Disclaimer: I-don't-own-them-if-I-did-less-talk-more-sex-Neil-Gaiman-and-Terry-Pratchett-have-that-right-you-know-the-drill.   
Notes: Yuss! Aziraphale rocks my world! Give the boy a hand! 

~Tomo Trillions   
www.amberstone.net   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com 

~~~~~~ 

Aziraphale was certain that on his last visit to Heaven, there had been no armed guard, and certainly no jails. And there hadn't been a set of shackles to be seen - so what was going on? Furrowing his brow, the blonde tugged and the chains set around his arms and wings, and winced as they bit into his skin with the closest feeling Heaven had to 'pain'. 

So far his mission to rescue Crowley was not fairing well. At all. In fact, Aziraphale wasn't even sure why he had chosen to come visit Heaven in the first place, in retrospect. What could God do - or rather, the Metatron - No, Aziraphale decided, he had come to see God, and not some lousy speaker, so he shoved the voice to the back of his mind and frowned. What could God do to aide his plight? Crowley was a demon, and under the jurisdiction of Hell - since he had fallen, he had no contacts with his previous employer. What's more, Aziraphale knew _extremely_ well that angels weren't supposed to associate with demons or even fraternize openly with the Nemesis, because that was dangerously close to falling, after all. That...well.... really *_damned_* the angel's whole purpose for being in Heaven to speak with God in the first place. 

...anyway. Why had he been shoved in a cell moments after arriving? 

_/Well, you weren't exactly being subtle, now were you?/_

Subtle? About what? All he had done was show up, look around, and try to ask a few friendly questions of the natives. The old Heaven would never have reacted like this, he sighed, beginning to feel a little homesick - partially for Earth, and partially for the Heaven he had once known, over six thousand years earlier.__

_/Yeah, the old place was quite a bit nicer. Although I do think the fountains are a homely touch. The sound of running water is always so refreshing.../___

"Perfect for curling up with a good book," Aziraphale sighed dreamily, thinking of his quaint little bookshop.__

_/A nice shop, you're right. You must be proud./_

"I - " the angel paused, blinked, shook his head, and looked perplexed. "That was a strange little voice answering my thoughts inside of my head..... wasn't it?" He asked, sounding suspicious. 

A smug yet not unfamiliar tone answered his tentative query. _/Mmmhmmm./_

"Er," Aziraphale mumbled softly, glancing around the empty, far-too-strong-for-his-own-good whitewashed walls of his prison with obvious misgivings about his own personal sanity, "Who are you, might I ask?" 

There was a pause that, instead of sounding awkward, seemed to Aziraphale to sound slightly amused, in a silent sort of way. He liked it much better than the Metatron's snobby silences, and relaxed a bit. _/I'm your night in shining armor./_

"Cro-" Aziraphale bit his lip, but he hadn't been able to help it - that name was the first that popped into his mind. He blushed faintly and would have looked away if he had known where his companion was hiding. He settled for looking at his hands, instead, as that was a rather safe bet. 

_/See? Not subtle at all./ _A laugh. 

Aziraphale was very good at looking bewildered, and he did just that, quite effectively, as The Voice chuckled silently at it's own personal joke. _/Here, I'll unlock your shackles and we can dash off./ _There was a clicking sound, and Aziraphale found himself successfully freed. 

"Thank you, that's quite a bit better."__

_/Should be. Now, follow me through this suspiciously dark and spooky tunnel./___

"Heaven has suspiciously dark and spooky tunnels?" Aziraphale asked, kneeling and crawling through a gap in the wall that had appeared moments before. It closed up behind him with a slurping sound, which he tried hard to ignore. 

_/Does now./ _ The Voice sounded a bit pleased, then remarked, _/That wasn't very subtle, either./_

"I'm sorry?" 

_/Only new souls ask questions these days, new souls and idiots, I should say./ _ The Voice told him, leading him onwards. Aziraphale crawled until his wings started feeling a bit cramped. /Oh, sorry,/ it said, as the passageway tilted up, and widened, until the angel could stand. _/Better?/_

"Mmhmm." Aziraphale paused to consider the fact that the world around him had just shifted for the second time in what couldn't have been more than about ten minutes, but decided that thinking about it would do no good until he had thought-inducing cup of tea and perhaps a bit of that delicious pound cake Crowley was so fond of... 

_/No, no, how could you be surprised they found you out, what with you thinking so loudly about that demon all the time? I picked up on your quest to free a forbidden 'friend' the moment you set foot up here. Even the Metatron could sense it after a few minutes...and asking questions, really.../_

"Look -" whoever you are - "__

_/You should know me, Aziraphale,/_ the voice really was amused now. Aziraphale's blush multiplied several times, and he took a step backwards, mouth forming the sort of 'O' that always made Crowley stare in admiration. 

"No! You can't be...!" 

_/Mmmhmmm./_

"But - " Aziraphale was beyond bewildered, at this point. Had he been a lesser entity, his head probably would have exploded, he would later decide. "But why did You rescue me, after Your spokesman had me arrested?" 

"That's easy," said the Voice, which happened to also be God. "The Metatron is a traitor."   


~~~~ 

Aziraphale wondered if he had heard right. "Lord?" 

_/Yeah?/_

He definitely felt faint. "It really has been six thousand years. I don't recall you sounding anything like this..."__

_/Oh, you mean the 'bearded-old-guy-look', way back when? I got tired of that. Who wants to be old and wrinkly for all of eternity, anyway?/ _Aziraphale supposed that made sense, and nodded as wisely as he could._ /I get ahead of myself. Won't you sit down?/_

It was then that the angel noticed a tea table sitting before him, and he nodded vaguely. It took him three tries to successfully fold his wings against the back of the chair - reaching out, a teacup formed itself in his hand, filled with tea, just the way he liked it. Lots of sugar. Hesitantly, he took a sip, then finished off the cup in his nervousness. 

_/Now, I suppose you're wanting to know why I rescued you from that abysmal prison?/_

"Actually, I was sort of wondering why Your great empire - Heaven - even _has_ a prison. If You don't mind me asking, sir." 

_/It's all Metatron's fault. It's into that sort of thing, you know./_

"Oh. No. I mean, no, I didn't know, sir." 

_/Come now, Aziraphale, that's not necessary. Neither is the capitalization. It gets annoying after a while, you know?/_

"Er." 

_/Yes. Well. The reason I rescued you, even though you're a tad too close to a certain demon posing in a body of the same gender as your own, I rather like you./_

"You...do? Um. Thanks." Aziraphale wondered why God cared that Crowley was somewhat male at the moment. 

_/Because you're different. Metatron was different too, before it sort of went sour. So was Lucifer, for that matter./ _Aziraphale must have looked alarmed, because God chuckled. _/Don't worry, you're an entirely different different. Or maybe not. But, my point remains that I did save you, because you're unique, and I need someone unique for this little affair./_

"You mean, the Metatron being a traitor?" 

_/Bingo./_

Aziraphale hadn't known God said Bingo. 

_/I say lots of things./_

"Of course!" 

_/You see, you think you are here because Hell recalled your lover, and you want him back. That's quite true - but the only reason Metatron let you through was because I wanted to see you - though don't tell it that, that would damage it's ego. It's really quite sensitive, you see_./ Aziraphale tried hard to look in all directions, but the voice seemed to be emanating from everywhere, making eye-contact rather sketchy at best. _/Since the Apocalypse, it's been gaining power, turning Heaven into a mish-mash of culture-less souls...nothing like the old days. At first I figured, 'what the heck? Let it have its fun!' However, this is getting out of hand./_

"Yes, I agree. Angels shouldn't be thrown into prison." 

_/They killed one the other day./_

"WHAT?!" 

_/Killed one. An angel. That got me a tad teed, so I'm setting up a resistance of Two, and you, Aziraphale, are that One of that Two./_

"You're sending me after the Metatron alone?" 

_/No, I'm sending you to Hell, to find Crawly, who will assist you in overthrowing the Metatron, and redeem himself, and you two can make happy angel babies while I rearrange the plazas of Heaven in an aesthetically pleasing manner. How does that strike you?/ _asked God. 

Aziraphale choked on his tea.   


~~~~~ 

Still dark. He would have rolled over, but between his aching body and the cold stone floor, he decided it was a bad idea. 

Human form. Too hard to torture a snake. Besides, humans had much more blood, which made things much more interesting, in any case. 

Somewhere in the darkness, he thought he could hear a familiar voice, so soft that he almost thought he'd imagined it slipping across the blood-slicked rocks - Aziraphale. It had to be Aziraphale - the demon let a hoarse moan slip through his cracked lips. 

_'.......Crowley,'_ the angel's voice smiled, though Crowley could see no face. Invisible wings were so soft as they wrapped around his body, and he shivered at the touch that wasn't - couldn't - really be there... Crowley reached out, sighing inadvertently as his fingers slipped through the fuzzy apparition, but he didn't dare open his eyes. 

".....zira....?" his voice creaked, and there was no response. '.....zira...._please_...talk to me?" 

He rolled, then, and the sensation disappeared with the motion, angel wings that were nothing more than imagination to begin with returning to the darkness - and Crowley moaned again into his clenched fist. It hurt. A whole, _fucking_ lot. 

They wanted him to admit that he was in love. 

He wouldn't do it, wouldn't say it - his circular, half-delirious logic would not allow that. Because if there was anybody in the _entire universe_ he would admit that to, it was NOT the Courts of Hell. It was Aziraphale. That, however, was impossible. 

He wasn't particularly worried about what Aziraphale would think - that was irrelevant, really. Nothing could come of this one-sided emotion, whether Hell or the angel was the first to know. It wasn't as if he and Aziraphale could live happily ever after...given their circumstances... if the angel even _realized_ how his demonic counterpart felt. Crowley knew all to well that Aziraphale didn't understand the romantic sort of love that Crowley occasionally dabbled in with young humans. He had once asked Crowley why sex - reproduction was so appreciated by the human race, and when Crowley had tried to explain (first with flowery words and metaphors, then with rather sloppy details) the angel had been unable to grasp the idea of utter completion. 

It was because Aziraphale _was_ complete. Utterly complete, even without Crowley around. 

"Don' want him to fall..." the demon reminded himself, that was the final reason he could never let Aziraphale know. Because what if the angel did give in, found Crowley acceptable, maybe even loved him back - and then fell because of it? Crowley knew all too well that he was a sinner, and essentially a sin itself. The best thing he could do for the angel was to stay away, down here in Hell, where he would not be tempted now that he understood that his affections and (however harmless) intentions were more than just friendly. 

And he _really did_ love Aziraphale. Loved him enough to never say a word. 

That was the circle. He would not, could not tell his superiors unless he had confessed to Aziraphale first - nobody but the angel deserved to know. And he would not, could not speak the words they wanted to hear to his angel, because that would put Aziraphale in danger. 

He rolled over, wishing he was in any body but his human shell. 

Not because it hurt so much that he could barely think straight... 

It was just that snakes couldn't cry, and Crowley hated crying more than anything. 

~~~~~ 

The first thing Aziraphale did when he reached Earth was to call Newt, tell him where he was going, and thank him properly for the advice. The second thing he did was to sip a nice, calming cup of cocoa. The third thing was to fetch his jacket, wrap it securely around himself, close the windows of his shop and step out into the cold. 

He was going to visit Hastur. 

Aziraphale didn't walk much on a regular basis. For the most part, if he needed to get somewhere far away, he either called Crowley or hired a cab. Over the years the local taxi company had learned that he tipped high and frequently, sometimes even multiple times a night, and so many a good cab driver had been maimed of even killed when Aziraphale hired up one of their numbers. To date there had been three pile-up accidents, one involving a train, and several cases of severe head trauma - though, naturally, that was over the course of years. Aziraphale didn't go out often. 

However, the winning driver was always quick and polite, even if his coach DID smell a bit like blood, and so Aziraphale didn't mind that it took them a bit longer than usual to reach his house. Crowley had once pointed out that taxi drivers don't expect to be tipped much, and wasn't the angel spoiling them when he overpaid on purpose? Aziraphale had laughed and told Crowley he was overreacting. 

On this day, however, the angel was walking, galoshes squeaking in the puddles of melting snow. His lack of breath showed distinctively in that there were no white puffs circling his head as he exhaled, earning him a stare from the occasional more perceptive passerby. Aziraphale shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed internally. 

He was nervous. 

Very nervous. 

And who wouldn't be? He had just been told to go to Hell by the Great Lord Almighty. It was a strange feeling, the raw fear bubbling in his gut like an overcooked pot of ramen. It was different, he reflected, than when he and Crowley had thrown everything aside and faced off with Satan himself. Probably because, the angel thought blankly, when he had been fighting the Apocalypse death had been a _sure thing_ Now, though, it was a very flickering candle-flame, and the simple lack of surety was what upset him so. If he was going to die once or twice over, he wanted to know. 

A little street child offered him a plastic flower, and Aziraphale almost unconscious dropped a heavy amount of change in her grubby hands before pushing by without a word. He stuffed the false blossom in one pocket and continued wandering. 

He was sure he would end up at Crowley's flat sooner or later, even if he did have no idea how to get there. 

And, naturally, he did. 

Despite his intentions of being very composed, intimidating, and strong-willed as he burst into the room, Aziraphale found himself knocking politely before pushing his way in, discovering that the occupant of the flat had not bothered to lock the door. "Hastur, I need a word with you," he called out, voice much stronger than he himself felt. 

Silence. 

"Hastur?" The door finished its inward swing as Aziraphale stepped into the room. Not much had changed - nothing new had been destroyed, nothing repaired at all... Flipping the lights on, Aziraphale discovered that the living room was empty. 

With cautious steps the angel made his way to another door, poking his head into the kitchen, then the bathroom, but still found nothing at all. His next stop was the bedroom. 

As soon as he set foot in the room, something crunched under his feet - and after flipping on the lights, Aziraphale knelt and picked it up. 

Not before noticing, however, that there was an pentagram identical to the one in his own room on the floor, this one still red-hot from recent use. He swallowed - the tie with the Other World was still very much alive. Then he looked down at the torn paper in his hand. 

It was a chin. Or, more precisely, a delicately painted chin, one that struck Aziraphale as very familiar. That was, he realized as his eyes slowly moved to the wall, where the canvas had originally been mounted, because it was his own. 

The angel pressed the torn paper back against the frame and searched the room, finding several other chunks of paint-laden cloth and adding them to the picture like pieces of a puzzle. It was, he realized, a portrait of himself done back in Elizabeth-ian times, when cameras hadn't even been dreamt of. His old body, one that had been destroyed shortly afterward in (or into) a sticky mess involving bayonets, smiled back at him - it was darker than his current form, with sloppy black hair...that one had been taller, he recalled the feeling of having several inches lost from his Earthly height with what was almost a smile. 

"I thought this lost long ago," the angel let the canvas fall to the floor again. "I wonder why Crowley..." 

There was a peculiar feeling in the pit of his stomach, an emotion or a sensation that was not entirely new, but used to going very unnoticed. "He really does have a soft side," the angel smiled faintly, courage renewed. Crowley was more than a demon, he reminded himself, he was a friend, and a friend in need, at that. 

The tie to Hell was still open. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, summoned up his sword, and plunged into the circle. 

He was not taken at all by surprise when his human body disintegrated around him, and he was engulfed in a wave of agony. 

After all, it took more than that to stop an angel with a mission.   
  
  



	4. Capture

Title: High Treason   
Rating: PG-13   
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale   
Disclaimer: I-don't-own-them-if-I-did-less-talk-more-sex-Neil-Gaiman-and-Terry-Pratchett-have-that-right-you-know-the-drill.   
Notes: Jeez. Hastur is a real jerk, and this angel has teeth. ^^; I can't believe I got this chapter out in a day. o_o 

Thank you so much, everyone, for the encouraging commentary. It's really inspiring - I mean, it's more fun working when you know people like what's being put out. ^^;   


~Tomo Trillions   
www.amberstone.net   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com   
~~~~~~   


It turned out that the portal Aziraphale had used led into a sort of train-station-of-the-damned, which was in the center of a massive, bustling city. While Aziraphale had expected many things of Hell, train stations had _not_ been one of them - and for a very long, very quivery moment he considered turning back. 

He didn't, of course. As an angel he had considered plenty of things that he'd never done. 

Take Crowley*, for example. 

Aziraphale had considered doing this or that with him, and never quite gotten around to it. They had never been to an amusement park, for example, or to Japan, or Argentina. They hadn't been to the beach in half a century, or even seen a movie since motion pictures first came out with sound. There was so much left to do.... 

And, as far as the angel was concerned, they would do it all as soon as this was over. 

With a pause, Aziraphale took notice of what others around him were wearing - every last one of them seemed beaten, battered, torn, spattered with sticky blood... Keeping that in mind, the angel stepped into a side alley and took a deep breath - in moments his suit was ripped all across the front. How well was Hell monitored? He didn't want to find out, but all of his suspicions told him that using heavenly magic might lead to discovery. 

And whipping up several pints of blood was definitely going to take some magic. Therefore, it was not an option. Yet to fit in... 

Aziraphale took the sword he held in under one arm - God had given him the boon of a weapon summoning skill, allowing him to call his blade from anywhere and have it materialize in his hand. The upside of that was that he could also remove it, and appear unarmed. 

The angel exhaled sharply, bit his lip hard, and slashed himself across the side. 

It wasn't a deep wound, but it did the job - blood began seeping immediately, sliding down his side and staining his pants with slow, slick red fingers. Aziraphale smudged some across his arms and face, breath hissing through his teeth as he struggled with a minor - very minor - healing magic, praying it was too small to be of any notice to anyone who would bother checking such things. 

When he tried to use that spell, however, Aziraphale discovered that the very _air_ in Hell vibrated with unseen force, magical potential that almost overwhelmed the angel. With that much power in the air, surely one could do anything they liked...! 

But wasn't that what Hell was about? Greed? Indulgence? Aziraphale shivered at the implications, but allowed his wound to congeal slowly, until all that was left was a faint, showy gash. 

The angel ran bloody fingers through his hair, pulled half of it from his ponytail, and took another gauged breath. Would the disguise be enough? 

He would soon find out. 

~~~~   
_* No, not like that, you pervert._   
~~~~ 

Hell was huge. 

Really huge. 

In fact, wherever the angel turned, there seemed to be another side street or station identical to the one he had just passed - and when he turned around, neither was there at all. Souls passed by, jabbering mouthless-ly as they moved, as faceless as the silent denizens of Heaven - and Aziraphale knew that asking for directions would get him arrested as quickly as it had up above. 

But...surely he needed to get to that Citadel, the one that loomed overhead but never seemed to get closer. There had to be some trick to getting there.... 

He took another look at the 'station' to his left that hadn't been there five minutes before, and wondered. Maybe being arrested was what he _wanted_. Maybe they would take him to Crowley - and that had to be better than wandering around Hell for all eternity, right? 

Still, his conscious nagged, what if something went wrong? What if, once inside, he could never find his way out? Somehow wandering through a maze within the sinful castle seemed just as rough as that very situation outside, where almost-fresh, smoggy air was a benefit. 

Aziraphale walked further through the thinning crowd of people, and the tower stayed where it was - miles away from him and quite untouchable. After another long ten minutes that felt like half a lifetime the angel stopped again, looking around nervously at the suddenly silent streets. Was it just him, or had the multitude of faceless beings on the sidewalks thinned out to no more than a trickle? 

Something was wrong. He turned on one heel, just in time to see two very large, very intimidating creatures appear on the street behind him, wielding swords and very angry grins. 

Aziraphale wasted no time considering his options. He just ran like - well - _hell_. 

~~~~ 

".....Craaaaawly..... Craaaaaaaaawly, good mooooooooorning...." 

Someone was shaking the door of his cell, Crowley realized, and his throat constricted in fear, making breathing more than a little difficult. So, deciding breath wasn't worth the effort, the demon pulled himself halfway up on rubbery arms, staring at the jumping metal. 

"Guess what we found, Crawly?" 

He didn't have the heart to respond. 

"It's very nice. A pretty little plaything, all clean and sparkling. Or rather, it _was_ clean, now it seems a bit too beaten up to be of much use to anyone..." 

Something about the smug tone of that voice - it had to be Hastur's - made Crowley sit up a bit straighter, brows furrowing in suspicion. It was the voice of someone who had several things up his sleeve - one being power, another being a deranged sense of humor, and the third? A secret. "What," he croaked, not quite sure if he really wanted to know, "are you talking about?" 

"I'm talking about the angel that somehow made his way to Hell," each word was hissed with particular relish. "Looking. For. You." 

"WHAT?!" Crowley was up in a heartbeat before he could stop himself, cuffed hands slamming urgently against the door as if he could break it down by sheer force of will alone. "You liar! You damned lying bastard! Don't joke like that, don't-" 

Suddenly a voice, scared, tiny in the black pit of a cell met his ears - and the demon stopped, standing perfectly still, his mouth gone dry.. It was familiar. Goose bumps rose up on the back of Crowley's neck as he slowly lowered his hands. "Crawly..." the voice cried, shaking as it spoke. Weak. Tired. "Crawly, I'm sorry, I tried to-" 

"Aziraphale?" the demon gulped. "Aziraphale? Is that you?" 

"Yes," the single word was utterly miserable - broken - and Crowley shook his head, trying to dispel the image that burst into his mind along with that voice. 

"Stop these games, Hastur," he hissed into the cold doorframe, adrenaline still pulsing through his veins, with a side of relief. "That's not Aziraphale. He would never call me '_Crawly_'. I've called your bluff, now leave me be." 

An annoyed, high-pitched hiss filled the air, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor - probably that of whatever unfortunate minion had attempted to imitate an angel. "You're right, Crawly." A very, very tense pause. "The real Aziraphale is in _no_ condition to speak, I promise." 

But Crowley had courage again. Confidence. "Liar." 

"The real Aziraphale is being interrogated. They caught him near the Seventieth Station, and he took out seven guards before being stopped." 

"He wouldn't fight them, you idiot. He's an angel. He would never, ever do that." 

"Not even for your life? I thought he loved you." Hastur snorted, and his footsteps receded - then paused in mid-stride. "Hm. Wait _just_ a moment...." 

The voice returned to the other side of Crowley's door - so close that, if he closed his eyes, he could hear the rustling of Hastur's clothing in the utter darkness. "He doesn't know, does he, Crawly?" 

Crowley said nothing. 

"You love the angel, but you've never gotten up the courage to tell him." A sharp, harsh laugh met Crowley's ears, and he winced. "He doesn't know! He's doing this in the name of mere friendship, when you...!" 

Stay quiet, Crowley told himself, don't give him the satisfaction of knowing he's right. Don't say _anything_. 

Hastur seemed to find the situation funny - his grating giggles made Crowley shudder in annoyance. "You really think he'll be willing, if he ever does find out? An angel loving a demon... what a laugh. You're a joke, Crawly, an old, overused joke." Crowley closed his eyes and began breathing, just to fill the utter silence with something other than Hastur's smug amusement. "What if," the other demon pondered, "I just tell him, right now?" 

"You bastard," Crowley swallowed, "Aziraphale is safe on Earth right now. You can't drag an angel down here without pissing a few important, dangerous people off!." 

"You say that, and it's true. However, he came here willingly! I left the portal open, in your apartment." 

Crowley tightened his fists. "...._liar_...." 

"I lured him there easily. And he took the bait, not realizing we were watching the circle for any activity..." 

"....you didn't..." 

"I did. And he's here, looking for his 'friend'. That's what he said, you know, "I'm here to free my friend!" All sappy and dramatic - what crap. Maybe I'll just tell him the disgusting things I know you want to do to him.... Tell the angel gently how badly you want to fuck him?" Crowley growled. "Maybe we'll see if he still wants you free, then. How about it?" 

Crowley knew he shouldn't listen, should ignore the taunts being thrown in the darkness - but somehow he just couldn't block that out. What if Aziraphale _was_ here? The angel tended to obsess over injustices, waiting anxiously until others righted them or he had to do so himself. So it was entirely possible that Aziraphale did intend to rescue him from Hell. That was just the sort of blockheaded, do-goody thing the angel would attempt... and he wouldn't stand a chance. "I don't want to do anything to him," he whispered. "You're lying." 

"You do. Don't you want to have him? You're a demon, aren't you?" 

A mental image struck Crowley with all the force of a sledgehammer. He reeled, falling to the ground as the image assaulted his mind. 

It was Aziraphale that appeared against the demon's closed eyelids, covered in blood, clinging pitifully to the chains wrapped around his neck. He was human. He was naked. He was standing with his head up and shoulders back, blood coursing down his chest and legs, in the center of Hell's greatest court, staring into the eyes of Beezlebub himself. 

Crowley watched with a heart that would have been pounding if he had remembered that beating was generally a heart-ish thing to do, as Aziraphale tossed his head, and the crowd began to go wild. Though there was no sound to the vision, Crowley could more than imagine the horrible catcalls and mocking taunts that would be assailing his angel if such a thing was true - "...stop," he whispered. "I don't want to see this. Stop." 

"It's real, _Crawly_." 

The dream-Aziraphale turned as guards appeared, dodging as best he could in his clumsy human shell. One of the monsters backhanded the angel, sending him sprawling across the dias, where he lay unmoving. 

"It's not. It _can't_ be." 

One of the monsters hauled Aziraphale over one shoulder and bowed darkly to the demons circling the floor. Crowley felt faint, but couldn't help the faint cheer that escaped his throat as the angel suddenly came alive, swinging wildly and catching his captor in the side of the head. The monster dropped him, and somehow Aziraphale managed to land on his feet, glaring at the beings around him with the darkest expression Crowley had ever seen him wear. 

The demons in the crowd were going wild, clawing their way towards where the angel was standing, eager for fresh blood - fresh holy blood. Crowley knew that if something didn't happen, and fast, Aziraphale wouldn't stand a chance. "Get out of there," he felt himself whisper. 

Aziraphale actually stopped and looked up, straight at Crowley, a puzzled expression on his face. 

And that was when they struck - quickly, efficiently, and brutally - leaving the angel with a long-bladed sword protruding from his sternum. The angel crumpled. 

"Oh, my," Hastur hissed, "I hope he's not dead... I have _so much_ to tell him." 

"HASTUR! STOP THIS!" Crowley closed his eyes. That couldn't really be Aziraphale, _could_ it...? But if it was, and his angel was really out there in a sea of demons, hurt - and all because of him - "Leave him alone- Please? Just leave him be. He didn't hurt anyone..." Begging. He was actually begging. "...you don't want to anger Heaven, do you? Hastur? _HASTUR_!" 

Crowley slammed his fists against the door until they were raw and bleeding, and then he flung himself down into the corner, resting his head against the cold stone walls and thinking, hard. 

Perhaps that was better than sleep. Fewer nightmares, anyway. 

~~~~ 


	5. Intuition

Title: High Treason   
Chapter: Five   
Chapter rating: PG-13 (I really like it when people rate chapters~ thanks to those who do!)   
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale   
Notes: Angst. Lots of angst. LOADS OF ANGST. 

Please don't kill me. 

Especially you, Yo-tan. o_o; 

*runs* 

~Tomo   
www.amberstone.net   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com   
~~~~~   


There was a hissing in the air. 

Not a friendly, familiar hissing, either. 

It did not, the angel decided, sound like Crowley. 

Then he opened one eye and discovered that he had been correct, much to his regret. Hastur was leaning against the wall opposite of Aziraphale, filing his nails with a chunk of rusted, unhealthy-looking metal. The angel closed his eyes again, taking stock of the situation.. 

His hands were bound, so were his legs - not his wings, though. Good. He wondered what had happened, and recalled that he had ended up with a large metal object embedded in his chest - that was right. And, judging by the fact that he had wings again, his human body must have up and died on him. 

Angels and demons, when wearing a human shell, will continue to wear that shell for as long as it lasts. Their body as a human does not age nor does it have a set gender (though changing _that_ takes a lot of thoughtful time and effort), but could indeed be stripped by some mortal injury, leaving the angel as simply a spirit on Earth. Getting a new body was always a hassle, no matter how great your excuse was*. 

Aziraphale had gone through many a body in his six thousand plus years, though not as many as Crowley. As the times got more modern it became less and less common to be mugged, attacked, trampled, robbed, murdered, beheaded - basically it was getting easier to stay alive. His last body had been destroyed in an auto accident involving one of the first cars in the world. The on before that, during the French Revolution, and before that.... 

"Ah, angel, you're awake." 

"Hello, Hastur," Aziraphale growled. Angels are not meant to growl. The most threatening noise they can make is a sort of disapproving 'tsk' in the back of their throat, which happens on such occasions as a nasty traffic jam, a full theater, or a very drunken companion. Most issues right themselves immediately after such a sound is issued, unless they wanted to be sleeping on the proverbial couch for a month.** 

It was unknown if angels could moan, but it's a good bet that certain unnamed souls of the demonic persuasion would very much like to find that out. They could probably scream in pain (or other things) too, if the right pressures were applied. There was definitely more than one demon willing to discover _that_ answer. And Aziraphale was looking one in the eyes at that very moment. 

The attempted growl came out as more of a twisted sort of vaguely annoyed sigh that made Hastur snicker - which he did exceedingly well. "Good, good, I was getting worried that you might not wake up. I have _such_ fun things planned!" 

Aziraphale was very bleary. "Where's Crowley?" 

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." Hastur tilted his head, as if considering whether or not to free the angel across from him. He must have seen a spark of hope in Aziraphale's eyes - freed hands meant easy sword access - and did not touch the chains. "Crawly. Why in the world are you down here, sweet little angel?" 

Aziraphale's face attempted a scowl, but it went the same way the growl had. "I'm looking for Crowley. You know that. Why are you asking me stupid questions?" 

"I'm humoring you. And sounding menacing while doing so." 

"It's not working. I'm not afraid of you." 

"Well," Hastur looked annoyed, "I'm not the one you need to be afraid of. Why do you think Crawly is down here, anyway?" 

"It's my fault. He got in trouble for being my friend - I'm going to get him out of me." Angels can, however, look defiant. Aziraphale was making good use of that, despite the chains about his bare waist, ankles and wrists.. 

"Oh? Your 'friend'? You think that the empire of Hell had no idea Crawly spent free time in your company? We've known for ages and never given a damn," the demon sneered. "What we realized is that you still don't understand what Crawly is hiding behind that friendship." 

Aziraphale didn't quite know what to say. "Nrk?" He managed a sort of squeaky query instead of something sane. 

"Yes, yes indeed," Hastur hissed, eyes gleaming like tiny, hardened chunks of glass. "That secret is why he's here - it's something even an evil-abiding demon can't stand. He _wants_ you, angel." 

There was a heavy velvet silence. "What?" 

"I said 'he wants you.' As in, he wants to seduce you, to tempt you to falling, in short - to fuck you blind every night of the week. He's fallen for you - literally - and that is unacceptable for a demon. And so he is here. Bing punished." 

Aziraphale stared at Hastur as if he had just sprouted three extra noses and a couple of tails. His first thought was that his hellish captor was lying - although along with that hope came a little ball of lead that settled into the pit of his stomach and refused to budge. Something.... something about that seemed almost real. 

"Imagine what he could tell his fellows - 'I seduced an angel. I singlehandedly knocked him from grace. It was me.' What he didn't realize is that any demon worth his salt can tempt an angel - feeling for one, however, is different." 

Why _had_ Crowley always chosen an angel for company? "It's not like that. It can't be like that. We have no gender, Hastur! Love is impossible...it...it's unnecessary!" 

"Who said the word love?" Hastur wasn't laughing, now - his eyes were narrow, his lips peeled back into a malicious grin. "He thinks it is. But, as you said, love is impossible for our sort. Demons can do many things, angel - lust, steal, hate, kill - but they could never _love_. Your 'Crowley' is a pathetic one, too demonic to love, but too human to believe he's capable of the obsession you breed in him. He denies it." 

"I..." 

"You haven't watched him in the weeks he's been here," Hastur was moving, circling Aziraphale and coming ever closer. "You haven't heard his dreams. You haven't seen the way he thinks. I have... the chains that bind him grant us access to his mind, his very own thoughts betray him. He dreams of you every night, angel. Of touching you, kissing you - raping you - " 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, trying to block out the taunting words - Hastur couldn't be right, he simply couldn't be. Crowley had been a friend for thousands of years, and never once had he shown an inclination to hurt Aziraphale in any way - even in the beginning, they had understood that they were simply at a job, working as they had to. Even when they hadn't been able to get along, before the human ways had steeped their lives in change, they had held respect for one another at the very least.... The Agreement had been natural, and after that came friendship, before either one had realized it was there. Demons were not capable of love, but Crowley might be human enough to feel such things as.... 

For a moment the angel sighed. Hastur's words had a ring of truth to them - as an angel, he could sense such things - but there were lies, too. How much of it was real, and how much was fabricated to torment the captive angel? How much was a lie? 

It didn't matter what it was, his conscious told him. Crowley had honor, although it was sketchy at best. And he would never hurt a friend. 

But.... 

Hadn't God said something about....? 

Aziraphale opened his eyes. 

"You're wrong. I know Crowley, and he would never do that to me. He might care for me, but he would never hurt me... Not after what we've been through. I don't believe you - I don't doubt him." 

Hastur was grinning like a hyena. "Then let me show you his dreams." 

~~~~~   
_*Crowley had found this out firsthand when Hell realized his growing pattern of dying quickly was merely an exceedingly in-depth attempt at insurance fraud.___

_**The companion, of course. Traffic jams and theaters don't sleep._   
~~~~ 

Anthony J. Crowley opened his eyes as the door to his cell slammed shut, staring into the darkness of the corner as footsteps receded into the inky gloom. For a moment he had forgotten where he was - a luxury - but when confronted with the metallic slam of chains on stone and a mound of luminescent light, he quickly remembered. He was in Hell. 

But what... 

The mound moved. And moaned. 

The demon shivered, but leaned forward, the muted light of whatever it was burning his sensitive eyes, tuned as they were to the utter blackness of the pit he was in. For a long moment he said nothing, as whatever it was shifted and began to unfold in to something vaguely recognizable as a human shape. 

Eyes met his, and Crowley couldn't help the small, incredulous squeak that slipped out of his throat. "A...Aziraphale?!" 

It _was_ Aziraphale. He looked tired - more than tired, he looked exhausted and injured. His arms were unchained, and Crowley could see deep red grooves in his arms from unforgiving iron, and there were slashes on his body in places, the deep marks of a sword - though nothing as serious as the injury he had sustained in the demon's mental vision. Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. 

On another note, Aziraphale was naked, and he was glowing. Crowley moved closer. _"Crowley...?"_

The demon was overcome with a very acute wave of desperate need. With fumbling hands he reached out, placing a light palm on the angel's shoulder - it was solid. "You're real. You're really here." 

Aziraphale winced at the contact. "Yes-" 

In moments Crowley was beside the angel, pulling him close in an almost helpless manner, his head resting against the Aziraphale's shoulder. "I thought I would never see you again." he whispered against the soft skin. It felt like a dream of some kind, a dream that would slip away if he dared to focus on it. "I thought you were dead....." 

"...I'm not....." Despite his sudden bout of nervousness at the contact (Damn that Hastur... Damn him for planting doubts.) Aziraphale let Crowley cling to him, awkwardly settling his hands against the demon's back. At least for now he could ignore....everything.... Or at least try to. He owed that much to his friend. 

Funny, he hadn't been sure what to expect when he finally reached Crowley. The angel supposed this response was better than nothing, but... What had he been hoping for? 

Crowley, the angel noticed, looked like hell. "Are you alright?" The demon asked hurriedly, taken aback by the stare Aziraphale had fixed him with - he pulled back and settled for shaking his companion by the shoulders. "I... Hastur showed me what happened in the courtroom. Why did you follow me down here, you raging idiot?! Didn't you know you would get caught?" 

The angel seemed taken aback. "Well, you're down here because of me. I wasn't going to just leave you," he said with a lopsided smile. 

"So you thought you'd waltz into Hell unarmed and pay me a little visit?!" Crowley crossed his arms, the chains on his wrists clanking noisily as he did so. What was left of his pride was already kicking in, and the same stubborn demon that had refused the Apocalypse had resurfaced in the injured human body. "Angel, I can take care of myself." 

Aziraphale smiled faintly at the nickname. It sounded much nicer when Crowley said it than when Hastur did - Hastur made it into a label and a slur, but Crowley's tone of voice kept it an endearment, even when he was angry. The ball of lead in the angel's stomach seemed to be losing a bit of it's potency - and his nervousness was evaporating bit by bit in the face of Crowley's perfectly...well...normal behavior. Nothing had changed, he told himself gratefully. Nothing had changed at all. "So you simply enjoy being locked up for weeks on end?" 

"Well. It's not my favorite choice of pastime," Crowley grimace. "But may I point out that your rescue attempt fell rather flat, angel?" Aziraphale smiled a mysterious smile, resting his chin on his palm and gazing at Crowley smugly. The demon cleared his throat. "......right, angel? Aziraphale? Right?" 

"They're monitoring your thoughts through those metal bands on your wrists," Aziraphale told him softly. "Don't think about it or they may notice. We're going to keep quiet until they let their guard down, and then we are leaving. I want to go to the beach." 

Crowley stared at Aziraphale in a way that much resembled the way Aziraphale had earlier stared at Hastur. "What?" 

"I want to go to the beach." The angel looked down at his hands, smiling faintly in the darkness. "We've never gone together...that's what I want to do when we get out of here. That and everything else we've never done. We have forever, and we're wasting our time..." 

A hopeful look flickered in the demon's eyes. "Aziraphale..." 

"Er. Crowley." The angel took a deep breath. If he was going to ask, he was going to do it now, before they ran out into almost certain bodily harm. "I feel like... Well, foolish for bringing this up. But... Hastur...mentioned some things to me. Really odd things. And I didn't believe him...but I wanted... to you know, ask why you were down here. The whole reason." 

The demon's face fell. Then Aziraphale _did_ know, and he obviously _did_ care - that would explain why he had tensed up so badly when Crowley had tried to touch him. Hastur was not a demon of idle threats, it seemed, and that meant he had probably mentioned more than the simple fact that Crowley's affections were getting the best of him. "If he told you I would ever do anything to hurt you in _any way_," Crowley said fiercely, mind settled on telling the truth (for one), "He lied. If he mentioned that I happen to love you, could you do me a favor and forget about that little truth?" 

Words cannot describe the surprised, somewhat cross-eyed expression that found itself on Aziraphale's face. "......................I see." 

The demon looked down. "It's hard enough as it is. I'll get rid of it." The way Crowley saw things, anything could be removed with a good solid kicking - anything from dogs to unwanted thoughts. All he needed to do was have some quiet time in which to begin abusing the unwanted emotion that had wormed its way into his heart. Never mind the fact that he really _did_ want the angel... never mind that nothing would make him happier than staying with his companion forever (which, he reminded himself, was going to happen no matter how they felt about each other if they could get out of this alive~), never mind that now he was near the angel - and not at the mercy of Hell's judicial system - love didn't seem quite so bad. 

Aziraphale nodded faintly. 

"Are you still going to get me out of here?" Crowley asked pathetically. 

"Of course. Just... give me some time to think about things. To get used to... it." It wasn't really a request, and Crowley nodded his assent in the darkness of the room, lit only by the faint luminescence of Aziraphale's angel-skin. 

It wasn't that the prospect of love went against the angel's personality or beliefs. It was just impossible for him to reciprocate. 

Or so he assumed... Aziraphale had never wanted to love. He had never tried to love. And God had mentioned something about 'happy angel babies' (wasn't that his wording?) Meaning that someone up there had already given a relationship between eternal beings at least a little bit of thought. 

Angels, beings of God, can't love, because contrary to many beliefs about evil and madness, love happens to often be at the root of both. It's just one of those things. 

"Aziraphale?" Crowley asked a few minutes later, from the other side of the dank cell. 

"Yes?" 

"They're going to have us killed." 

"....oh. We might want to proceed with the escaping, then." 

"Maybe. But I think I can already hear them coming." 

The angel mumbled a word under his breath, and a large steel blade appeared out of nowhere above the two prisoners with a small pop, lingering a moment before gravity noticed it was there. The sword landed centimeters from the tip of Crowley's shoe, quivering slightly. 

"Oh. That's a nice trick, angel." 

Aziraphale smiled as he clumsily sliced through the chains on his arms. "I try." 

~~~~   


Anathema Device Pulsifer had extraordinarily good intuition, a result, quite obviously, of her heredity. She was very good at being in the right place at the right time, even when books of prophecy are not concerned. So, when she began feeling the urge to move about, to _investigate_ that morning, she thought nothing of it. "Newt?" 

He was sitting at the table, drinking coffee, the googly eyes of his bunny slippers gazing balefully up at her. "Yes, hon?" 

"I think we should check on Aziraphale," Anathema said smartly. 

"The angel? Why?" The prospect of leaving the house had been terrifying only moments before, however the thought of chasing after a Heavenly Being at scarcely eight AM was ten times worse. Newt reached for his coffee cup for reassurance. 

"I just feel like we should. You know." 

"But I have work today...and Alli..." 

"We can drop the baby off with Adam. It's a Saturday, he never misses a chance to make money." 

"It's a little early..." 

"Please?" She turned her Feminine Wiles (tm) on her husband, and he relented almost instantly. 

Newt set down his paper and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Let me call in sick. You do realize, of course, that you're leaving our only daughter in the hands of the Antichrist?" 

"I can't think of a safer place on Earth." 

They found Aziraphale's return address on one of the Christmas cards that Anathema had saved, and with that firmly in hand the couple set off towards the angel's little known bookshop. However, on this particular occasion Anathema's precious intuition was just a little bit off. The nagging, curious sensation in the back of her mind had not been caused by an innocent hunch. It had been, quite basically, someone Upstairs telling her that her number was up. 

Needless to say that when the pile-up occurred and Anathema Device found herself staring at her own body sprawled on the pavement, she was slightly surprised. 

That was about the time she realized that she was dead. 

~~~~~   
~~~~~ 


	6. Death

Title: High Treason   
Chapter: Six   
Chapter rating: PG-13, rather violent   
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale   
Notes: Aziraphale is so cool... *sparkle* 

~Tomo   
www.amberstone.net   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com   
~~~~~   


Aziraphale, it turned out, was very good with a sword. So good, in fact, that Crowley simply took the rear of their attack with a broad-slashing sword he had earned off one of the fallen foes while the angel was the vanguard, slashing his way through the demon ranks. "Where'd you learn to do that?!" Crowley managed to pant when they paused at an intersection of rolling hallways. 

The angel smiled weakly, slashing halfheartedly at the air with his sword. "Um. You sort of pick it up, you know, when certain numbers of angels choose to pick fights." 

"Oh." Crowley avoided another slashing blade, this time the product of a massive creature looming just behind him. He ducked the swing, then slashed upwards into the demon's stomach. A slippery bout of blood drenched his arm, and he sighed, slashing up and away with his messy blade. "You make it look so much cleaner." 

"That's because it's flaming," Aziraphale said nonchalantly. 

"Huh?" 

"My sword. It's flaming. So when it slashes through someone... well, it just keeps things cleaner." The angel grimaced, then looked left and right. "Say, do you have any idea where we are?" 

"Hell?" Crowley muttered helpfully. 

"I mean, which way do we go?" 

The demon frowned. If he knew Hell - and he did - there would be a very simple answer to this. In the underworld, the Right Thing was seen as a waste of time - so they should not travel in that direction. To go straight would be to walk the most obvious path, and that was equally frowned upon, slash that one out... So that left... "By process of elimination, left." 

They turned, Aziraphale charging head-on into a few more denizens of Hell, who seemed quite surprised to suddenly be segmented into pieces. Crowley wondered what had happened to 'Thou Shalt Not Kill', but thought it better not to ask. It might be a sensitive issue. 

He swept in on the angel's left flank, slashing with all of his human strength, wincing as the blade slashed and clanged against solid metal armor. "Aziraphale, your right-" the angel moved gracefully, even with his proudly slashing sword heavy in one hand - like a dancer. The demon would have sighed in admiration, but at that moment an orc-like being with dubious intentions appeared to his side, and he was forced to slash* into yet another body. 

The pathways of Hell's citadel were an endless maze, filled with more perils, traps, soldiers and bad artwork than Aziraphale had ever imagined possible. Just when he was afraid they would be walking forever, the thin path they had been traveling opened up into a wide cavern, dripping with stalactites of silver and red. 

Hastur was waiting. 

~~~~~   
_*The word 'slash' was used twelve times in that segment. Sorry. The author is a bit preoccupied at the moment._   
~~~~~ 

Anathema was vaguely aware that Heaven looked nothing like she had expected it to. Instead of fields of gold and treasure, gilded fountains and beautiful trees the city itself looked painfully close to an example of communism gone horrendously wrong. 

She also had noticed that instead of flowing milk and honey and playing children the whitewashed walls and roads seemed to be filled with souls that were wandering about aimlessly, looking as if they had just woken up - or fallen asleep, either description is accurate. 

It seemed, to the young woman, that something was fundamentally _wrong_ with the Afterlife. So she wandered about, admiring the occasional winged form and deciding that she understood why Aziraphale never visited home. 

It wasn't comfortable. It didn't feel safe. In fact, it didn't feel that much different from Earth (which hung in the sky like a large moon) at all. 

After an hour or so of such meandering, she came across a small cave in the side of a hill that she was sure hadn't been there moments before, and stuck her head inside curiously. In the center of the small cavern sat a small table. Onn the magenta and neon green tablecloth sat two cups of tea and a pair of dice. 

She took a few steps forward, and noticed for the first time that there was someone sitting at the garishly covered table. 

"Hello?" Called Anathema. 

"Hello," said the voice back to her. "Do come in, I've been expecting you." 

"...oh." Glancing over her shoulder once more at the monotone city of Heaven, she entered the cave, and came face to face with a young woman. The lady was pretty, with coiling black hair and eyes like stars - and she smiled up at Anathema as she pulled out her chair. 

The sense of power was astounding. Anathema shook her head in shock. "You...you're..." 

"God," said the woman cheerfully. Her eyes were unblinking, and glowed as if twin suns were fixated to the back of her skull and peering out through those two sockets. She sipped her tea with one pinky extended gracefully. "And you're Anathema Device ... I suppose I should add Pulsifer to that name, hm? You had a hand in the Apocalypse round." 

Anathema had been floored by the first word of the previous paragraph. When she righted herself, she asked quite shakily: "God is a woman?" 

She had always suspected such. But still, it was a surprise. 

"God has no gender," God smiled innocently, and would have batted eyelashes had she had them at the moment. 

"But..." Anathema pointed at the other woman's chest. "You...have..." 

"Jugs?" 

".......yes." 

"Well," God blinked - or Anathema got the impression that she was blinking - and smiled again. "The thing about humans is that they can never agree on anything at all. I'm one of those things. Half the world believes I'm an ancient old guy give or take a son or prophet or two, another percentile thinks I have multiple arms and legs, some of them don't even think I'm here at all - and you happen to think that if I had any sense I would be a woman, and that the feminine will inherit the Earth. So for you I am." She smiled. "Everybody is different. So I have to be different for everybody." 

Anathema had gone for a long stretch of her life believing there was no such thing as God. Another portion had been when she believed in several dozen worship-able idols - and since meeting Aziraphale, Crowley, and the near-end of the world she had selected careful neutrality on the subject. It confused her. 

And now God had a better figure than she did and was offering her tea. 

She took it with shaking hands. "Oh." 

"You're probably wondering why you're dead," the 'woman' across the table beamed quite literally. "I would be too, if I were you." 

"I...was in a car wreck." Anathema paused, then her eyes widened. "Wait. A car...Newt? Is Newt dead?!" 

God shook her head, curly hair bobbing. "No," she said softly, "He's perfectly fine. Well," the woman amended, "very upset, but physically fine." 

There was a very long pause as Anathema struggled to put this information into perspective. It meant that while she was here, dead, Newt and Alli were on Earth, alone. It meant that she would never see them again. It meant that she would never hold her daughter, or kiss her husband, or laugh at a radio program or pick out gaudy-yet-fun clothing in the local stores... Her home in Tadfield. Allison. Newt. 

She wasn't quite aware that homesick tears were beading in her eyes until God patted her gently on the shoulder with a touch that burned like ice. "There, there. Lives go by quickly. They'll be here before you know it." 

Somehow that didn't make her feel much better. "....I.... I didn't want to die." 

"Nobody does. But I had to take you now, I need you here. It couldn't wait." 

Anathema twitched, bitterness filling her voice. "You took me now? Away from my family? What is so important that you found it worth ripping me away from the only thing I have?" 

"The fate of every soul in the human race?" God asked hopefully. Anathema set down her teacup, looking sick. 

"Oh, no," she said faintly. "I've had enough of this save-the-world crap to last a lifetime - I'm not interested. Just plunk me back down in my body or whatever, and we'll call this even. I'll forget all about you and you can pick somebody else to help." 

God regarded Anathema sternly. "I'm not asking. I'm telling. You _will_ help me." 

"Says who?" The reply came before Anathema recalled whom she was speaking to. 

"Them." God pointed to the lopsided dice that were laying next to the sugar bowl. Anathema stared at them and felt a distinct pain between her eyes, the sort caused by a normal person staring at something with quite a few more dimensions than they themselves did. 

"Them? Dice?" 

"Yes. It's my roll, you see, and the numbers gave me another player on my side. Aziraphale and Crowley are already moving, along with Hastur and the Metatron... I haven't been able to add another for a while. But you're on the board now, and you'll stay there." The tone gave no room for argument. 

"........" Anathema stared hard at the dice, not willing to believe what she saw. "You mean those little things are deciding who dies and who lives?" 

"Oh, they decide much more than that," God waved a well-manicured hand. Her nails were ice blue. "A certain human once said that life is a play, and all the people just actors. He was wrong - Life is a Game*." 

"A Game?" 

"Yes. Sort of like chess, only with players like Risk with a sprinkle of Monopoly. Wait a moment," her eyes flickered red, then returned to silvery white. "Lucifer is getting impatient. We should hurry." 

"*Lucifer?!*" Anathema's jaw dropped. "You're playing this Game with..." 

God shifted almost nervously. "Well, I hated the thought of throwing away a good friendship due to a few fundamental disagreements. So yes, Lucifer is my opponent, although in a friendly sort of way. An.... Agreement, of sorts." 

It sounded quite like what Aziraphale and Crowley had arranged, thought Anathema. 

"Oh, yes, quite a bit like that, actually," God said sweetly with a voice was like crystalized honey. "That's why I'm rather fond of those two." 

"That still doesn't give you the right to play around with people's lives," Anathema almost shouted. "You're hurting honest people for the sake of a Game, for passing amusement! What kind of God _are_ you? Not one worth any sort of adoration, I think." 

Her words echoed in the cavern for a moment, before the Lord (Lady?) seemed to grow in size, her eyes glittering like dark, transparent diamonds. Angry and beautiful, she raised a hand and glared at Anathema with all the fury of creation in her aura. "People will die, and if they do, so be it. I created them. I created their deaths. Good? Evil? They are sides in a massive war, and what would Good or Evil do without a battle to fight, without something to stand for? They would rot away along with the boundaries of Heaven and Hell, until there was no dividing line, until humanity was a wash of gray, unable to function for the lack of morals or society. Think of a world with nothing to strive for, with no punishment for failure, no difference in money or society or goals.... Anarchy would reign, and then nothingness! This Game I play with the only other creature in this Reality strong enough to oppose me is the battle needed to maintain balence. If it were not in place, nothing could occur - ever. 

"Don't blame me for your death. It would have happened eventually, and you took your chances when you stepped out of your house. Fate is like that. Fate is chance, and these dice simply pick and choose among a dozen choices Fate has thrown out." God sat down again - when had she stood up? - and brushed bangs out of her eyes. Anathema shrank into her seat. "Despite what you may think, I rather like the human race. I'm proud of them. And I'm playing to win - for them." 

There was silence for a long moment. "I don't understand," Anathema murmured at last. Things were coming into perspective - this was much bigger than her own death, much bigger than the family she had left behind. "What do you want _me_ to do? What _can_ I do in a Game like this?" 

God gazed at her for another long moment before seeming to accept Anathema's grasp on the situation. "It's like this," that easy-going voice was back, friendly and warm like crushed velvet. "You are aware of the Metatron's position, I believe?" 

Anathema nodded. 

"Lucifer had a lucky roll, and the Metatron's loyalty has been compromised. This has led to a minor rebellion here in Heaven - there has been little bloodshed, but more than enough to warrant a counterattack. Aziraphale and Crowley are my pieces, they are trying to stop the violence here in Heaven. First, though, Lucifer found a way to arrange Crowley's removal from Earth's plane, leaving him locked in Hell." 

"Aziraphale went to find him, didn't he?" Anathema noted questioningly, not at all surprised when God nodded. "They... are they..." That seemed a silly question to ask, but she couldn't help wondering.... "Are Aziraphale and Crowley in love?" 

God smiled. "That's one thing the Game doesn't touch - emotion. But I believe so.... That may be a boon or a burden, depending how the dice fall out," she smiled faintly. "At the moment, though, I am trying to move them to Heaven. I have one more roll." 

Anathema nodded and watched as God plucked the multi-dimensional dice up between delicate fingers. 

They clicked. They rolled. 

They stopped. 

"This is fortunate," God told her, and Anathema looked relieved. "Your part will come up shortly." 

~~~~   
_*Certain companies have picked up on this and created a very simplified version of this, available all over the world. The Game of Life (not the board game!) has no banker, no peg-women and many more opportunities to place costly children underneath the little plastic car instead of inside it._   
~~~~ 

"So, angel, we meet again. And this time you brought your friend," Hastur hissed, nodding a greeting to Crowley. "Crawly, you're looking a bit pale. Are you feeling alright? Still your usual self?" A mirror-cracking grin followed that painfully unfunny sentence. 

"Stand aside, demon," Aziraphale said coldly, his hands tightening around the blade he held. 

"Or what? You'll kill me?" A sort of hysterical giggle followed that question, as Hastur smoothed back his brilliant red hair. "Isn't that a bit out of character for you?" 

"Aziraphale," Crowley hissed, "give me the sword. I can take care of him - you don't have to dirty your hands bothering with the likes of _him_." 

"It's alright, Crowley," the angel responded, never taking his windswept blue eyes from Hastur's form, "I'm in too deep for mercy to matter now - and you're in a human body, still." Crowley looked down - that was true. Aziraphale had broken his cuffs apart, but the metal ring around each of his wrists was effectively preventing him from changing into his true, more powerful form. He winced. "He hurt you...and he hurt me." To Hastur, the angel raised his voice. "Demon, if you do not stand down I will be forced to hurt you as you did my friend and I." 

More giggles. _"Friend_. You're going to fall for the sake of the demon who cares not-" 

Aziraphale leapt forward before the words left the demon's lips, his sword deftly changing hands and coming down against Hastur's side - where it clanged off of metal with a few sparks and a loud clatter. The angel looked alarmed to notice that Hastur was suddenly armed. 

"Fight me," Hastur's eyes glowed orange with anticipation. "And if you loose, you will be at my mercy. Forever." 

"If I win," the angel countered, "you will stand aside and let us pass unhindered. You will show us the exit to this Citadel and we will go free." 

Crowley took a step closer, but was stopped by very solid glares from each of the combatants. He gulped. "I suppose I'll just watch, then." 

"Stay out of the way, Crawly," Hastur hissed, and began to fight. 

It looked like a dance - albeit a poorly choreographed one. Aziraphale's movements were light, testing, feinting and relaxed, while Hastur struck with power behind every strike, as if each swing of the sword was a deathblow in its own right. They were very evenly matched, it seemed, save for the fact that Aziraphale was obviously not fighting to kill. 

Hastur had no problem with it. He struck with all of his strength, and drew first blood - a deep gash bit into Aziraphale's shoulder and the angel leapt back, temporarily abandoning his defense to cradle the injury. 

"Aziraphale! Don't let your guard down!" Crowley shouted - just in time, too, as Hastur immediately leapt and had to be beaten back with several sharp sword strikes. The demon let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. 

"First blood," Hastur claimed, a smirk perched smugly on his lips. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. 

Moving again, so quickly that Crowley had to squint to keep tabs on who was hitting who, the demon and angel began fighting again. The next pause showed Aziraphale with yet another growing wound, this time across his bare hip. Silver blood that looked more like light than liquid coursed down sculpted angel legs and spattered across the floor. 

"If you are going to hurt me," Hastur smirked, _"now_ would be a good time to do it." 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. "Please stand down. I don't...I don't want to kill you." 

Hastur laughed. "Kill me? That's the last thing you will be doing, angel." 

"And please don't call me that." 

"_Angel_." 

Aziraphale stepped forward, quicker than Crowley could sense, and plunged his blade into the low curve of Hastur's stomach even as the demon outstretched his arms to gloat, his sword breaking the skin of the demon's back. 

"Skewered him," Crowley almost laughed in relief. 

Hastur's lips opened and closed like a fish out of water for a long moment, before he looked - shocked - into Aziraphale's eyes. "You really..." 

With an expression of detached indifference, Aziraphale jerked his sword back and the burning weapon slipped silently from Hastur's body. Black blood joined silver on the cobblestones of the floor. "Stand down," Aziraphale said softly, apologetically, as he stared at the demon. Crowley took a few steps forward - but Hastur struggled to his feet, one hand clutching desperately at the hole in his abdomen. 

"Take up your sword." 

Aziraphale's eyes filled with something akin to anger, released in the form of tears that appeared at the corners of his eyes. Crowley called out. "Aziraphale, just push him to one side, we can get around him now. You don't have to..." 

"I know," the angel whispered, pained. "But if he does not admit to losing this battle, I will not have won. And if I don't win he will continue to haunt us, even when all of this is over..." 

It was true. Crowley realized that Hastur must have planned such terms - and Aziraphale had not caught that nuance until he had already agreed. Hastur would not lose without dying - and in dying at Aziraphale's hand, he was inflicting the worst pain imaginable upon his angel nemesis. 

The demon smirked, lifting his blade with one bloodstained hand. He came in from Aziraphale's right, and angel easily countered, blocking the short, desperate swings. Hastur's speed and mobility were greatly reduced by the aching injury in his belly, and shortly Aziraphale had inflicted a second painful attack against the demon's sword-shoulder. 

Hastur cried out and sank to his knees, the pool of blood about him growing. "Please," Aziraphale whispered, fingers trembling around the hilt of his sword, "give up. _Please_." 

The demon smiled. "Never." 

Aziraphale received a third injury to his wrist, and blood seemed to be pouring from the gash. The angel looked faint, but not faint enough to be caught by Hastur's flat-out uppercut attack, which left his torso wide open for several precious seconds. Aziraphale stepped back, his weapon switched hands again, and brought his blade slashing with all of his power up against Hastur's chest. 

The demon fell, and this time did not get up. He was too preoccupied with trying to shove body parts that had once been located in his chest cavity back into their proper places, and failing miserably at that. Hastur looked hatefully up at Aziraphale, who took a step back, shocked by the sudden conclusion. 

"Nice work..." the demon hissed with a pained smile on his lips, "....._angel_...." 

Crowley broke in, then, stealing the holy sword from Aziraphale's grasp before any more damage could be done. It burned into his palms but he ignored the feeling and brought the blade down against Hastur's skull, feeling (with some satisfaction) the bones give way and the life snuff out of the creature beneath him. 

Immortality, he realized, was very unreliable. Like ice that was thin in places, without signs to warn you where the problem was. 

Moments later he was pulling a very shaky Aziraphale away from the scene and trying to forget the fight he had just seen. Death at the hands of an angel... "Well, that's out of the way. Let's try to get out of here." 

Aziraphale was silent. 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Elsewhere the sound of dice hitting a tacky tablecloth filled the air. 

God looked down, blinked, and frowned, bringing a fist against the table hard. Thunk. "Damn," she said, quite prettily. 

"What?" Asked Anathema, who was watching the proceedings with fear in her belly. 

"Lady luck seems to have left us for the moment." 

"What?!" 

God said nothing, but stared down at the multi-dimensional dice with a very, very worried expression on her ever so holy face. 

~~~~   
~~~~ 


	7. Escape

Title: High Treason   
Chapter: Seven   
Chapter rating: PG-13 angst   
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale   
Notes: I actually finished this chapter a few days ago, but waited to post it for one reason. That is the incentive for you, the reader, to join the Good Omens slash Yahoogroup, Crowley's Angels - you'll get more fanstuff by myself and others, quicker, easier, delivered to your proverbial front door! Go for it! 

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/CrowleysAngels 

^-^ End-of-plug. Or maybe I could be evil and only post the ending to this fic on the mailing list...XD XD XD 

~Tomo ~~~~an very sick person   
www.amberstone.net   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com   
~~~~~   


Crowley wasn't sure how they had managed to escape the Citadel - the hours of hacking and moving and fear had all bled together until he was sure some portion of the circuitry in his brain had been permanently damaged. Hastur, he knew, was dead. The important thing, however, was that they were outside, and that Aziraphale had wrapped soft angel-arms around his torso from behind, and they were leaping off the side of the tower as one. 

Feathers pounded, he could feel Aziraphale's long hair brush past his cheeks, and then they were away from the violent showers of burning arrows that someone behind the enemy lines had thought to equip. 

"Where are we going?" Aziraphale called, the air stealing his words away. 

Crowley looked down and struggled to grasp the modernized, Americanized version of Hell beneath him. "We need a portal, I think." He paused. 

What was it Hastur had said? Hadn't he mentioned a number....? 

"Aziraphale! You were caught at the Seventieth Station! We could go there and look for a portal!" 

"But Crowley," Aziraphale's mouth was painfully close to his ear, and Crowley suppressed a shiver at the contact. You would think his libido would have found a better time and place to announce itself, but apparently its sense of timing was no better than Crowley's. "I wandered for hours before they caught up with me." 

"That's the thing about Hell, though," Crowley was grinning very devilishly. "You can walk forever and never get where you want to be - a little trick devised by the natives. Go to your right, see that small group of brown pole-things? Aim for there." 

The air currants shifted, hot and smoky around them as Aziraphale angled their flight downwards. Crowley could feel the muscles of his angel's - _the_ angel's - torso flex an pull as his wings swept in perfected downstrokes - it was a pleasant (and totally unwanted) sensation. 

When they finally did reach the station, Aziraphale let Crowley go and both of them stood in a sort of awkward silence before they realized that the minions of Hell were still out for blood and chose to utilize the round circle-portal still open against the cobblestones. 

Crowley's apartment was still a wreck when they returned - Aziraphale managed to stumble towards the bed and flop down there as the demon dissolved the contact with Hell and rendered the room as safe as any other place on Earth for them to hide in. 

He turned and stared at Aziraphale, who was curled on the bed with closed eyes. His angel form was warm looking, androgynous, and stained with more shades of blood than any single species could provide. 

The sight of crimson-black made Crowley frown - the angel had been through more in the past two days than either of them had in the previous several thousand years. "That was some nice rescue work you did down there." 

Aziraphale said nothing. 

"It's over, thanks to you. I really owe you one, saving my ass like that." It was an admission that was not easy for Crowley to make - usually Aziraphale could sense those a mile away and showed his appreciation for the honesty, but this time he said nothing, merely lay with his eyes squeezed shut against the pillows. The sword was gone again. "Aziraphale?" 

"I killed them," the angel finally whispered. Crowley nodded faintly. 

"Yeah. You did. Nothing for it now, though." 

"I _killed_. I _sinned_." 

"But you did it trying to save someone, and you only sinned against the sinners." Crowley settled down on the side of the bed and ran his hands through his sweaty hair. "You were trying to save a life, selfless like always, you damned perfect angel." 

"But I killed them..." Aziraphale shrank in against himself, eyes flickering open and focusing on the hand that lay on the pillow next to him. "Blood. All blood, and all because of me," he whispered. "It doesn't matter why I did it. I can never go back." 

"Aziraphale, if you were going to fall-" 

The angel gave a sharp laugh. "Falling? I won't. I know I won't. I'm on _God's Work_, you see, he's put me on a mission." 

Crowley felt something inside of him twist sharply. "You mean...God wanted you to rescue me." God. Not Aziraphale, as strange as that seemed. The demon was now a bit more familiar with the sensation of having your heart ripped out and trampled on by a herd of heedless, hungry goats. 

"Something about a rebellion in Heaven," Aziraphale's eyes were filled with tears as he pressed his fingertips against his lips in a sort of apologetic kiss, his voice far away and detached. "Something about us saving the world again. That doesn't matter, you don't understand - I've killed a person and I'll always know it." 

Crowley wondered what is was like to be that pure, for a moment - he was beyond caring for simple things like the lives of others - it was his skin that mattered - his and Aziraphale, that was. Then he wondered whether to be more hurt/angered by the fact that Aziraphale had only retrieved him at the command of his God or the fact that God wanted to see him at all. 

It was a tough choice. He elected for a healthy portion of both. "Yeah, you will," he muttered. "But for now, you should clean up and get ready. If God wants us up in Heaven I expect we'll end up there sooner or later - the bastard." 

"I can't." 

"What?" 

"I can't." 

"....?" 

"Go up to Heaven, now." 

"What? Why?" 

"I've killed. So many times," Aziraphale closed his eyes again, grimacing at the images of gore that immediately filled his senses, blood dripping endlessly against his eyelids. How could he articulate the feeling of breaking the ultimate of holy promises? Thou shalt not kill. 

But he had. 

"There's so much blood. I can't... I can't get it off of me," his voice caught in the back of his throat. "I can't get it off. It won't go away." 

Crowley watched, paralyzed in his surprise, as Aziraphale dissolved into nearly hysterical sobs, repeating his terrified mantra over and over. "It won't go away, it won't go away..." 

"Of course it will," Crowley hissed, standing nervously and disappearing from the bedroom. The demon was generally no good at all with comforting anyone or anything - not in his nature - but his most hidden instincts kicked in rather painfully and he did his best. 

"I can't get it off, get off, please, I can't make it go away-" 

Crowley quickly fetched a bowl of warm water, several bandages and a tattered towel, trying to ignore the frantic mumbling coming from the direction of his bedroom. He had been surprised that Aziraphale had gone through so many trials and tribulations without pausing to consider his actions - but obviously, now that the angelic equivalent of adrenaline had disappeared from his veins, Aziraphale was suffering to the utmost. Thank someone he hadn't broken down in the middle of their escape... 

Crowley bit back a pang of guilt for the pain of his friend, but crushed it back with an steely grimace. "If God sent him down there," he muttered, "It's no fault of mine. He didn't do it for _me_." 

He took the bowl back anyway, set it by the bed, then flopped down next to the angel and began fumbling for something to say. "Um. Angel." 

Aziraphale said nothing, but did allow Crowley to wordlessly wrap bandages about his injuries, hoping to at least stop the bleeding. Demons could not heal. 

Oh, Hell.... Heaven - Oh, Aziraphale. Crowley closed his eyes and wondered if what he was about to do could be considered taking advantage of his 'friend' - after deciding that such a thing was possible (even more than likely!) - he proceeded anyway. 

The first touch was very ginger, as the demon half expected Aziraphale to jerk away in fear - when no sharp motion was encountered, Crowley dared to move closer and sweep the cloth down Aziraphale's thin shoulder, moving in little circles that obliterated the stain on the angel's skin. When he touched the cloth back to the water it left the bowl swirling with a muddy color, which Crowley studied for a long moment. 

It would be nice to be near Aziraphale forever, he realized, but that could never happen. Neither of them _had_ forever, despite what he would like to believe. 

Crowley moved on to the angel's hands, tracing perfect nails and delicate crevasses with his eyes and fingers, scrubbing hard in places to rid his companion of the battle's residue. Aziraphale fingers were long, smooth, and they curled faintly around Crowley's hands as the demon paused in his ministrations. He watched with a soft, sad smile as Aziraphale's eyes fell closed and the angel curled a bit more against the pillows. "Make it go...way..." 

They were not human, however if Crowley was human enough to feel love, then Aziraphale was probably human enough to feel better after a good night's sleep and a full meal. 

Crowley was also human enough to pause in admiration of his angelic counterpart as Aziraphale slept, framed by the silk sheets of his very own bed. The angel's true form was beautiful - still luminescent and faintly transparent (Angels are not solid in their natural state on Earth - they need a human body to be such. However Crowley's demonic origins let him deal with the angel in partial solidity, as it were.), but the glow was less noticeable in the sunlight filtering through the room's single window. The demon let his eyes trail across the destroyed remnants of the painting across from his bed, the slash marks in the dresser that looked suspiciously like the trails of angry claws... The air of violence that filled the room only made Aziraphale seem that much holier. 

He finished the hands, and lifted one, kissing the knuckles softly. Aziraphale did not move, though his lips did, giving life to a sigh that sounded almost wistful. 

Anthony J. Crowley stood, tucking a blanket that he had just discovered about the angel's shoulders. His first movement was towards the safe, which he had moved from its normal home when he had last required the use of holy water. Now it was beneath the kitchen sink, and Crowley knelt, twisting the cap of a bottle of soap which clicked a bit and hummed as the back of the cabinet slid away. Entering a combination, Crowley swung the safe open, proceeded to haul a small metal container out, then set that on the table and fetched some gloves and a water droplet. 

He had been right in assuming that two drops would be enough to burn the demonic handcuffs from his wrists, though two thickly burnt patches of skin were left where the metal had touched his body. He wondered if they would scar. After a thoughtful moment he plucked the container up with a pair of tongs that had appeared moments before on the tabletop and carried it into the bedroom. 

Aziraphale slept for ten straight hours, and it was dark out by the time his eyes flickered open and managed to focus at last. Crowley had straightened up most of the house while he had slept, and when the angel sat up, it was almost possible to believe that the last forty-eight hours of his life had been nothing more than a miserable nightmare. 

Maybe he had gone a bit overboard in a bar, and Crowley had let him stay over... 

Then he noticed the tattered picture that had not been restored, half of his face stared back through the canvas - like a portion of his soul had been ripped out and was smiling at him from another life. 

It was not a dream. 

Aziraphale dropped his head into his hands and curled his wings close around himself, as if with them he block out all the atrocities of the world. 

He wanted to disappear. He wanted to be small an unnoticeable, he wanted to be punished, he wanted to forget - he wanted so many things that could never happen! 

He had killed someone. Himself. An angel, who had dedicated over six thousand years of life to saving souls and teaching people to forgive, had slaughtered others in cold blood... 

Aziraphale shivered, remembering the sickening feeling of flesh beneath his blade, wet and yielding. The coolness of demon blood, the sound of bodies hitting the cobblestones - he clenched his fingers into fists and moaned softly. 

He couldn't have done that. 

He shouldn't have. He was deserved to fall. He deserved hell. He wasn't worthy... 

"Angel?" 

Crowley's voice startled the angel into looking up, eyes filled with tears. "Um. Aziraphale. Are you all right?" 

"........." Aziraphale stared at Crowley for a very long moment. "I-I..." 

The demon's expression flickered into something between pity and pain as he came nearer. "Aziraphale," he murmured, making the angel blink at his soft, almost gentle tone of his voice, "do you want to talk about it?" 

"There's nothing to say," Aziraphale whispered. 

"There's everything to say!" Crowley moved closer, settling on the edge of the bed nervously - far enough away that Aziraphale would not be threatened by his presence. He didn't know how well the angel had taken his little confession earlier that day - it had only been a day? Felt like a lifetime. "Hastur forced you into a situation you could do nothing about. And - " 

"That doesn't make it alright," the angel looked down, resting his forehead against thin knees that he tucked up against his chest. "Nothing can make it alright. I think that I'm better now...at least a little. It was just such a shock to do something like that... Thank you, though... for..." He held his clean hands up, and Crowley nodded, blushing faintly. 

"I cleaned you up. I... um. Also made some food." He pointed into the other room and looked hopefully at the angel. "And set some clothes out for you." 

Aziraphale stared at him for a long moment, unsure of what to say. Part of him wished Crowley would tell him everything was alright - but another little piece of his heart was grateful for the honesty he saw in Crowley's gaze - the demon didn't know how things would end, no more than he did himself! Perhaps the most demonic thing his friend could do was tell the truth, Aziraphale sighed, then closed his eyes. 

"Aziraphale.... There on the night stand..." Crowley looked away, looking almost nervous to offer the angel what he saw as a bucket of the most potent acid as a gift. "It's holy water. I thought that you might like to sort of...cleanse yourself, or something. I thought that maybe it would make you feel better...proof that you haven't fallen." 

Aziraphale swallowed. "Thank you, Crowley. Um. I'm going to get dressed," he said hopefully, and when Crowley didn't move, he added "And take a shower." 

The demon was out of the room faster than a bat out of hell, leaving Aziraphale on his own. The angel glanced at the holy water and reached for it, dipping his fingers in the cool liquid. 

It felt good. Aziraphale touched his brow, and then his chest, and sighed faintly as his fingers slipped the bandages Crowley had wrapped around his injuries off and ran purified fingers across the wounds. 

They healed almost instantly, and Aziraphale moved into the bathroom. 

He had never killed before. During the rebellions he had been newly forged, and hadn't fought - then, being sent to Earth, it had been forbidden as a sin. He knew that angels as a species of sorts had certainly killed without consequences - they wouldn't even _have_ swords if such a thing wasn't expected of them - but the idea of being the one behind the killing stroke made him feel ill. 

Even though the enemy had been demons. 

Even though he had been rescuing his closest - his _only_ - friend. 

Even though God had sent him with a blessing.... 

....he had still... 

The water was warm, and he plunged into it as if it would wash away every sin he had ever committed, real or imagined, from his body and soul. Aziraphale's wings were awkward in the shower stall - he had to curl them against himself if he had any chance of fitting - and half the water from the faucet went right through his almost mass-less body - but the effect was still there. Relaxation seeped across his soul, and he slowly sank down to the porcelain basin, tucking up against himself as the water soaked his form through and through. 

It would be alright, he told himself. He was going back to Heaven - God wanted him in Heaven. He had sinned, but only in the name of his Lord, and that was alright, wasn't it? 

Aziraphale considered the Crusades of Earth, and found himself sighing again. 

But he had Crowley, still. He had won that small victory, he had saved his best friend. 

Crowley. 

The angel tucked himself up more tightly and closed his eyes. Even Crowley wasn't safe ground anymore - he felt something for him that the angel didn't understand. Aziraphale had been so worried when Crowley was gone, and seeing him again had almost washed away Hastur's words - and yet they lingered on, acrid like poison, filling his mind with doubts. 

_'If he told you I love you...' _Crowley had said. 

Aziraphale shivered and stood up, wings sending spirals of droplets spattering everywhere as he moved. He missed the old days, when good and bad had kept to themselves, had been neatly segregated, when he himself had been angelic enough to withstand any temptations - 

Even Crowley's. 

He didn't like the feeling that was eating at his mind. He didn't like the whole not-being-disgusted-by-Crowley's-admission sensation that he couldn't seem to shake, he felt uncomfortable thinking that the demon might... here, now, with everything crashing down around their ears.... be right about love. 

It was impossible. 

The angel slipped out of the shower and regarded himself in the mirror, staring into an expression no different from the face he had worn the day of his creation. He never grew old, never aged or changed on the outside, but inside? 

Things were different now, somehow, and he could never go back. The angel closed his eyes, and felt himself thinking in patterns he had never considered before. Justifying where no justification had ever been necessary, praying for forgiveness for his own soul, and not someone else's - so different, so alien and strange from the way things had always been. 

He stood there as time passed, as if by watching himself move he could find the reflection of his own imperfections in the mirror - but they were hidden beneath his skin, as if they were not there at all. 

If _only_... 

A knock sounded on the door, but Aziraphale didn't answer. There was a heavy pause, and then... "Aziraphale?" 

Crowley was so different, too... so much more to Aziraphale, now. The one thing that was still in place - had been since the very beginning - had changed inside as well, somehow - coming to believe in emotions such as love. How could this be? How could an immortal being - a demon - alter so completely? 

The door pushed open when there was no response, and Crowley (who had given up his human form and stood with wings unfolded) found himself staring straight at the angel, who was still very wet and very naked, leaning on the counter and staring at his reflection. He fumbled for words. "I- ... I just... - _sorry_-" 

Aziraphale turned to face the demon before Crowley could close the door, and swallowed back the startled cry that fell to his lips as something inside of him responded to the other being. Perfect lips parted and the angel took a step closer, eyes filled with questions that Crowley didn't dare identify. Finally, as if it took great effort to voice his fears, the angel managed a query. 

".....why?" 

"Aziraphale...?" 

"Why do you think you love me?" The angel looked down, fists clenched - it wasn't fair. Crowley had no right to feel this _now_, in the middle of all the .... the _shit_ that was happening to them. "I never asked for you to feel that way. Why did you get hurt for me?" 

Crowley was taken aback, half of his mind grinding to a halt as Aziraphale came closer, beautiful and damp, his hair trailing down his back and his wings filling the room with a soft, white light. "I d-didn't mean to," he whispered back, caught helplessly by the angel's presence. "I didn't want to. You're just...perfect. And I want to be like you... I want to be with you, watch you... be close to you...." 

Aziraphale stopped when he was inches away from the demon, and stared into his eyes, trying to discern some sort of truth there. "Demons can't feel love," he told Crowley shakily. "Hastur said that you wanted to _have_ me. To rape me. To make me fall for your own amusement." 

Crowley's throat felt scratchy at the very thought. He did _want_ the angel - how could he not? - but never like that...never. "He lied." 

"Did he?" 

"I would never..." 

Aziraphale looked away. "I want to trust you, Crowley, but everything his changing," he said softly. "I'm changing, and you are too. I...I'm not sure if.... if we can do what I set out to do now. You don't understand love..." 

"Neither do you! How can _you_ say what I can and can't feel?" Crowley caught Aziraphale's elbow and stared hard into the angel's cerulean eyes - was it just him, or was that a flicker of doubt swimming in those blue orbs? "I'm not asking you to love me back. I'm just asking for you to accept that I feel this way-" 

Aziraphale felt his stomach twisting at the words, at Crowley's closeness, and at the hurt that reflected in the demon's eyes. "Crowley..." 

It was a strange feeling. One that he was unfamiliar with. It scared him. 

And he had a sinking feeling that Crowley was not the only one who had learned a few new emotions over the millennia. After all, it had taken Aziraphale about ten minutes to learn the meaning of absolute horror. Love might...might be the same... 

The demon let go instantly, pacing away from Aziraphale with his hands in the pockets of a long, leather jacket. "Get dressed," he ordered, and Aziraphale did so. 

"Now, tell me what God has to do with this." 

Aziraphale told him. 

"Then there's a rebellion, and you and I are to help stop it? That's all?" 

The angel nodded, and Crowley laughed a bit sharply, running fingers through his tangled mane of hair. Scales spotted his visible skin and trailed up to feathered wings, the purest shade of ebony - precisely inverse of Aziraphale's proud white. "Heh. And I thought you saved my ass just because you liked me." Laughing it off made it hurt less, right? Still, the truth bit into him like the blade of a sword. 

The angel winced. "I-" 

Yet maybe.... Maybe if they would get through this, somehow, Aziraphale would understand... "I understand. Open a portal to Heaven, Aziraphale." 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

The Metatron was a blinding, incredible light, albeit vaguely man-shaped if one squinted - wings of sparking, towering energy feathers mounted at the base of its neck and spread into the sky, almost impossible to focus on. At the moment it turned and smiled faintly as a portal was open, one that would lead its opponents - victims - into its hands without any trouble at all. _"They're here,"_ it said with a smile. 

One of the underlings looked concerned, wide eyes regarding his appointed leader with a mixture of fear and anticipation. "Who is here, Lord Metatron?" 

_"The ones God has sent to destroy me,"_ the being responded with what could be construed as a thoughtful flicker of its brilliant light. _ "They have reached Our plane of reality."_

"Will you allow us to rid You of them?" Another young one asked, staring hopefully into the brilliant light. 

_"I do not think such measures will be necessary,"_ the Metatron told them gently, raising its gorgeous talons of light. _ "I will send them someplace beautiful,"_ it added, with a smirking tone. _"Watch me, young ones."_

They did, watching as a reasonable facsimile of Crowley and Aziraphale appeared before the Metatron's gold-gilded fingertips, tiny and perfect. A soft whisper and a faint glow filled the air, and the angels were left to sigh in awe as both Crowley and Aziraphale fell, unmoving, to the ground. 

"Shall one of us watch them and be sure they do not awaken?" 

_"No,"_ Metatron told them, smugly. _"None have ever escaped _that_. After all," it turned away and laughed with a sound like shattering crystal, "why leave Heaven?"_

~~~~ 


	8. Inside

Title: High Treason   
Chapter: Eight   
Chapter rating: PG-13 for implied angel babies   
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale   
Notes: 

I am so very sick. *coughhack* 

~Tomo~   
www.amberstone.net   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com   
~~~~~   
  


_-it was very dark, somehow-_

".....hello.......?" 

_-all alone, he attempted to move himself and got no response from delinquent arms and legs-_

"Crowley ........" 

_-he called, and for a moment thought someone called back, yet-_   
  
"......where?" 

_-and then, tiny flickering beacons, and when he opened his eyes, things seemed to fall into place like tiny puzzle pieces, and while the scene was not complete, things made sense again-_

A restaurant, run down, though still enjoyable - there were animal heads mounted on the wall as testaments to the prowess of the owner's hunting abilities, along with faintly checkered tablecloths and a floor that had seen more than its share of falling dishes and mud-covered boots. 

The wine in Aziraphale's glass was of a French sort, and older than the grandparents of anyone in the establishment. He sloshed it thoughtfully, before looking up and beaming happily at the demon across the table from him. 

It had been a nice evening. 

"That was lovely," Aziraphale decided, surveying the remnants of what had once been a four-course meal with a satisfied smile. They had tried everything from seafood to Asian in this tiny dump of a restaurant (some of which the chef hadn't known he could prepare) - and because both the angel and the demon had been hoping for a perfect evening, nothing had gone wrong. 

Crowley nodded, a snake-like grin on his face as he leaned back and waved for the check - he was never patient enough to wait. Aziraphale smiled faintly as the waitress hurried over - Crowley's clothing had earned stares enough when they entered, and oddly enough everyone was eager to please the leather-and-silver clad demon, probably out of the fear that if he was angered he might become contagious. "You said it. This wasn't a bad idea, after all," a faint, oily laugh. "You have the strangest tastes, Aziraphale." 

"Naturally," the angel said lightly, peering at the half-melted candles that were spread across the tablecloth, "or else I wouldn't be seen near you, my dear demon." 

Hadn't they been doing something... important, though? 

"Touché!" Crowley paid the check with Aziraphale watching carefully over his shoulder. When he shortchanged the waitress (who was probably too dim to notice, anyway) the angel carefully replaced the difference and doubled the tip before they stood. 

With a jaunty wave to the employees, the pair slipped out the door into the groggy night. 

Rain was still heavy in the air, and the blanket of humidity seemed to swallow every sound as they walked along the cobblestones towards the Bentley. Aziraphale closed his eyes as they moved, but blinked them back open as Crowley edged closer to him and slid a protective arm around his waist, pulling him up against a very warm chest. 

Aziraphale felt a bit surprised - but not put out - when the demon smiled down at him, giving him a very good opportunity to study golden slit-pupil eyes and slight fangs - Crowley's tongue, he noticed with faint amusement, was forked. "You seem very demonic tonight, Crowley." 

A hissing laugh, and a faked, injured look. "I have to be! I have some high-level tempting planned." 

The angel felt, somewhere back in the recesses of his mind, that such a statement should be alarming to him, but instead felt only a sort of pleasant, cheerful warmth as the demon leaned in and rested his forehead against Aziraphale's. Eyes that had been a mere goldenrod hue fell into another perspective, flecked with gold and silver shards and ringed by a sort of rich brown - beautiful, he sighed happily. Beautiful and, because it was only visible from such a distance - secret. 

The arms around his waist tightened, and Aziraphale's heart flashed alarm as Crowley pulled him up tightly, kissing his forehead very softly. 

It felt... Not exactly familiar, and yet not exactly right, either. He couldn't recall ever being in such a situation, but at the same time the simple, natural feeling of happiness that bubbled up inside of him - that was indeed something he had felt before. Only..... 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and listened to his own startled gasp of surprise. "Crowley... Wasn't there something we were doing...?" 

Crowley looked very, very annoyed. "What?" 

"I feel like I'm forgetting something." Aziraphale glanced down into the puddle-filled stones of the sidewalk. "Something is in the back of my mind, but I can't make sense of it. It's very strange. 

"Look... Aziraphale...." 

"What were we doing earlier?" Aziraphale buried his face against the cool leather of Crowley's trench coat, and was jostled in surprise as the demon shifted, sounding hurt. 

"You're making excuses again..." came a hissed complaint. 

"I..." Aziraphale looked confused. "I _what_?" 

The demon pulled away and looked at him doggedly with those accusatory amber-stone eyes. "Stop that. You're not much of a liar at all, angel. Tonight could be our night." 

Something about the way he said that made the angel shiver. 

"Tonight...?" Oh, yes. Hadn't he been waiting for something? Maybe that was what he had forgotton. Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, thinking hard. It had.... He had..... Crowley- 

Oh, yes. He and Crowley hadn't... yet.... 

_....but......._

"Please." The single word seemed to take all of Crowley's energy away. "I've been very well-behaved, and I'm asking nicely - I can't wait forever!" 

Aziraphale shifted uneasily, though the demon only tucked him closer as he did so. "Well, you _could_, actually..." 

"Aziraphale!" Crowley sounded hurt, which rocked the angel - demons rarely allowed weaker emotions - like fear - to be shown openly. "I've done what you wanted....Been a _gentleman_," a smirk was behind that word, "taken you out, shown you a night... Now it's my turn, and I won't be _anything_ like one. Please..." 

Aziraphale knew he should say no, with a conviction that he couldn't explain filling his heart. He couldn't remember why he was here - he couldn't recall getting in the Bentley or picking the restaurant, though there were vague memories of eating, of toasting. Something was... off. Not wrong, but definitely not normal. 

The mist swirled in eddies around them, chilling and cool - it seemed to permeate the angel's very thought processes with a lazy, detached touch. 

Aziraphale paused, his misgivings swept away by the fog. " ....my place?" The words were weak on his lips, and the angel blinked in surprise at his own audacity - but before he could retract the hesitant statement, Crowley had engulfed him in bear hug of inescapable proportions. 

"Yes, yes, yesyesyesss-" 

_...and then they were in the Bentley, Aziraphale's knuckles white as he watched the lights of a sleeping city speed by, empty - as if they were the only ones on earth..._

_...and then they were home, throwing damp jackets across the back of the chairs at his battered table, and Crowley was advancing, eyes filled with a definite demonic light as he folded Aziraphale against the wall and dealt him a searing kiss that left the angel shaking in shock._

Shock because it felt so good. 

Shock because of what it did to him. 

_...shocked because of how wrong it seemed..._

When lips slid from his mouth and left his tongue free for speech, Aziraphale protested, stars of black and red exploding against his eyelids, brilliant enough to burn - it hurt. A lot. "Crowley, w-wait..." 

"Mmm. No - " 

Lips found his neck, and the angel instinctively leaned back, burying his fingertips in Crowley's hair as his friend - _friend_ - made ecstatic little noises of exploration. 

Aziraphale felt like his head was breaking open as the demon touched him, it felt like he was burning, slowly, _painfully_ - "STOP!" he was shaking. "Please - " 

"....stop....." 

"....... please-" the words were slipping from his lips like tears. 

And at last Crowley moved away, looked angry - _betrayed_ - as Aziraphale stared back at him through wide eyes. "Angel? What is it?" 

"Please don't touch me," Aziraphale whispered, the nickname striking him to the bone. "Something is wrong with this. With us. Can't....can't you...." 

The demon was now holding him by the shoulders, eyes flashing. "Wrong - ?" 

_There was the sensation of falling, suddenly._

- And Aziraphale found himself somewhere else. In fact, he was somewhere else very familiar - and he felt a strange sense of deja-vu clamp down on his heart, which was pounding like a base drum within his chest. 

The cobblestones were wet. And Crowley was just wrapping a protective arm around his waist, tucking him close - 

"Crowley." 

It was so dark, and the wind was picking up - 

- and the name so familiar, and yet - "Yeah, angel?" 

_Angel._

Aziraphale froze. 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Newton Pulsifer was - by nature - not a lucky man. 

He had never been lucky. Not with numbers or letters, not with jobs or family or girlfriends - in fact, quite honestly, he had gotten lucky precisely three times in his entire life. One had been when Anathema first appeared, peering at his overturned car with a not-so-surprised expression on her face - another had been the Apocalypse, or rather its not-happening, (even though everyone else had come _that close_ to extinction too, Newt felt special about it since he had actually _been _there and could recall it quite easily) - and the third time was his daughter, curled up in the next room, wrapped in fuzzy green baby blankets. She was luck itself. 

The world had not ended in a massive free for all and a puff of brimstone, but to one Newt Pulsifer, it might as well have. 

He lay in his bed, and he stared at the ceiling, and he thought 'what a fool I am'. He had realized almost as soon as they had shown him to her room, where the critical body of his wife lay, tubes in her nose and mouth, eyes shut.... 

The machines had blipped. He had watched them tick for almost a day, and then they had ceased to do so with anticlimactic grace. 

And he had known, in the pit of his stomach, where every guilty, unspoken crime makes itself known to every person of any rank or caliber, that it was his fault. 

It was. 

If he had only kept the book of prophecies Agnes Nutter had left behind, they might have known what was coming - they might have done something to prevent it. Changed something. Altered the world in a slight, faint way that could change history forever - because surely something this unfair was never meant to be, he thought. 

If only he hadn't followed his instinct for independence. If only he had realized that a book of prophecies, while binding in a way, was also an incredible boon. 

He had cried a bit. Not much, because a very large portion of him could not bear to think of anything but the soft scent of her pillow beside him, and crying was not a part of that. 

She had rhyme and rhythm, though it was a strange beat. She had been consistently beautiful, and his first - and his only. Anathema - she had - had been - everything... 

Newt rolled over. 

Heaven. Hell. Humanity. 

What was the difference, anyway? 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Demons, in general, are highly tuned experts at the art of temptation, like a fine instrument they are calibrated to sin and human nature like a compass to the magnetic poles. They specialize in finding the base pleasure in anything that might be enjoyable in _any way_ whatsoever - and exploit that to the fullest. 

They are also very loath let opportunity slip through their claw tips. No matter what little blessing - so to speak - is sent your way, make the best of it! 

Crowley believed quite whole-heartedly in both of these statements. After all, he might not be a the best demon around, but he could not change what he was - and those commandments were ingrained into the place his heart might have been like scars. 

So when he awoke, senseless and surprised, in a warm velvety bed with Aziraphale holding a bottle of wine and tracing little pictures with it against his naked chest, he took a moment to consider protesting, and shoved that course of action aside. 

Aziraphale took a very long swig of wine, and moments later the liquid was filtering into Crowley's mouth via a very attractively shaped pair of lips. 

He proceeded to take complete and utter advantage of his situation in more ways than one. 

It was _very _good wine. 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Aziraphale was getting a sneaky, suspicious feeling - and when angels get something like that, it usually means trouble is very near, and very obvious. It took a lot to make Aziraphale really concerned, however the situation he was in now definitely warranted his time. 

He looked at Crowley, folded his arms, and cleared his throat primly. "Where did we first meet?" 

Crowley looked faintly surprised, but leveled out his expression and shrugged. "The Garden, of course. Remember? Sword? Apple...?" 

"What about our Arrangement," the angel persisted, undaunted by the demon's quick response. "When did we decide to form some sort of pact?" 

"The fourteenth century!" It was said without any distaste, which was highly unusual for Crowley. After all, he _hated_ that century with a passion - Aziraphale felt a bit more justified, and pressed harder. 

"When did we first kiss?" 

"Nineteen twenty three." That was right... his instincts told him that it had been a swing dance, and involved a lot of alcohol, but... Was that right? The angel paused a moment and thought hard. Where had he come up with that? He couldn't remember.... 

Aziraphale paused, his gut feeling and intuition colliding all at once and sending suspicious sparks up his spine. Something about these answers... was not right. The sense of deja vu grew. 

Very carefully he asked "When did you first tell me you loved me?" 

And he thought_ 'After the Armageddon...'_

"Just after that whole Apocalypse bit," Crowley said confidently. That time Aziraphale was prepared, and _felt_ the brush of another mind against his own. 

"Was that before or after all of my precious biblical books were transformed into children's stories?" 

Aziraphale thought about frogs. Beautiful, green, leaping from water-kissed lily pad to lily pad on the darkened pond that he fancied he could see beyond the whorls of mist. He felt the touch of another mind, which withdrew quickly. 

"Er..." Said 'Crowley'. 

The angel tried another tactic, and picture his bookshelves with dozens of animal stories in the nooks and crannies. In seconds, the 'demon' before him began grinning knowingly. 

"Sneaky little angel," the nickname sounded slimy and wrong and it made Aziraphale shiver, "they weren't kid's books, they were-" 

"WRONG." Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, and abruptly the mist around them began coalescing, becoming almost solid in its thickness. "You're not Crowley, are you?" The angel asked softly, his voice even and calm, despite his growing concern for his own personal safety. 

"What?" Crowley took a step closer, and Aziraphale threw his guard up, the angry shield almost visible in the blackness. "What are you talking about? Angel?" 

"Where are we?" 

'Crowley' looked pained. "America-" 

"No. We were fighting. Someone..." Aziraphale struggled to remember, peering through the cracks into the dark, boarded-up portions of his brain. "Someone important. God was there. Wasn't he?" 

"Look, if you're feeling sick-" 

Something about light, and the feeling of Crowley being ripped away. Aziraphale wondered for a moment if they had been attacked - and a shaft of light appeared in his mental chains. It was the Metatron, wasn't it? 

A pause, slight and quick, but not just in his mind - it was as if the gears of the entire world were churning to a stop. Aziraphale felt a rush of certainty as he looked up at the Crowley-but-not-Crowley and grinned almost darkly. "I know what this is." 

The other blinked. 

"It's looked into my heart, hasn't It? The Metatron? It took my greatest desire and locked me within it. An old trick..." Aziraphale smiled faintly. "It must have underestimated me - I _am_ an old angel. Being on Earth has not changed that at all." 

Across the cobblestones from him, 'Crowley' was looking distraught. "Angel..." 

"And to get out of this, I have to do the one thing that would utterly shatter the fantasy." Aziraphale looked at 'Crowley', then down at his own hands, which quickly materialized a very long, very flaming weapon. 

For a moment, insecurity flickered across the angel's expression, but he shook it a way - things were changing, after all. There were a lot of things he never thought he would be able to achieve, and this was one of them - 

"Funny. I never thought my own personal heaven would be an evening out with you," Aziraphale said a little sadly. "But I guess there's not a whole lot more I would ask for." 

Yet he managed, and when his eyes snapped open, the demon-blood on his hands turned out to be nothing more than a dream. 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

"You got free!" A joyous voice met his ears, and Aziraphale blinked, mouth hanging open in surprise as someone leapt up to him. He blinked back, disoriented and shocked to find Anathema standing before him, holding a white bundle against her chest. She looked young, proud, and alive - though if those three things were true, she should not be in Heaven at all. 

"A...Anathema?!" 

The young woman reached out and slung the robe into Aziraphale's arms, here eyes narrowing faintly. "I think God doesn't have enough faith in you, Aziraphale. She did seem to think you would be getting out of that mess." 

"You're...here!" 

"I'm...dead." 

Aziraphale gave her a very sympathetic look and shook his head, blonde locks falling over his eyes. "I'm sorry." 

"These things happen." 

"That.... then... it _was_ the Metatron, wasn't it?" The angel let out a long sigh. 

"Yeah," Anathema glanced away - not out of necessity, but out of politeness - as Aziraphale robed himself. "We figured that you would have a chance at immunity, or at least be less susceptible to the trick, after all - you _are_ an angel - but God never thought you would manage to find your way out." 

Aziraphale turned almost before she was done speaking. "Then Crowley..." 

"Is still out of it," Anathema smirked, pointing to where the demon still lay, sprawled against the ground with his eyes closed. A small smile spread across her lips. "He's been mumbling for a while..." 

"Oh..." 

"Your name." 

"Oh...?" 

"And something about wine." 

"......" 

Aziraphale moved over to where Crowley was settled and decided that whatever he was dreaming about, the demon must be enjoying it. 

Incorrigible even in his unconscious state, Crowley picked that very moment to mutter something that sounded uncannily like 'oh yes, Angel- yes - ' in his 'sleep.' Aziraphale's ears turned an interesting shade of pink as he shook the demon a little harder than necessary and was only rewarded with a low, dirty-sounding laugh. 

"He has to break out of it himself," Anathema observed, a frown on her face. 

Aziraphale nodded without meeting her eyes, and knelt next to Crowley. He gave the demon a very sharp shake, and groaned faintly as Crowley answered with a knowing 'you like it like that...' and a half-giggle. 

The angel jerked his hands back as if they had been burned. "Crowley, stop that, it's not really me - " he began weakly. The demon didn't seem to notice his protests. 

Funny....funny how they both had the same sort of paradise. Funny how his own Heaven was gentle if slightly protective company, and Crowley's was...well. Almost the same thing. 

Yet Crowley was the one in love. The angel licked his lips unconsciously. 

Crowley mumbled again, and Aziraphale felt something disturbingly close to pleasure coil in the pit of his stomach at the low sound. He scooted back, eyes wide, and was faintly aware of Anathema's soft laughter from where she stood over them. "You look so shocked," she said mirthfully, smiling down at him. "Denial isn't just a river in Egypt, you know. You were saying his name only a few minutes ago." 

"I..." Aziraphale glanced from the girl to the demon below him. "I don't know what you mean," he finished lamely. "Crowley has strange.... tastes." 

"I don't know, you're not _that_ bad," Anathema told him wryly. "At any rate, we have a Heaven to save, you know." 

Aziraphale nodded dimly. "I can't just leave Crowley here..." 

"Throw him over one shoulder. I think we should carry him with us, and when battle draws near, dump him somewhere." 

The angel paused. "....we?" 

"I didn't die for nothing. If anything's happening, I'm going to be there." 

"Oh." 

"And anyway, I figure if we get this done properly, I might get a boon or something - and then I'd get to go home and be with my family again. You know, Aziraphale," she glanced down, "...if you have a chance to... you know, speak with your employer..." 

"I'll put in a good word for you," the angel promised, looking distastefully down at Crowley, whose grin had grown wider in the few seconds that had passed. "If I get the chance." 

"Oh, stop fussing. It's not like _he'll_ mind being carried by you," Anathema looked relieved as she rolled her eyes, seeming very young and quite pretty. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears and grinned. "And besides, you may come out of this closer than ever before." 

Aziraphale looked vaguely offended and slipped straight back into his proper-English-bookstore-owner tone of voice, used for when his very rare customer got a tad too loud. "What was _that_ supposed to mean, young lady?" 

"Oh...." she looked away. "Nothing. Let's go." 

"Right." 

Crowley was jolted (but seemed to enjoy it...) as the angel none-too-gently threw him over one shoulder - Anathema led the way back to the center of Heaven, exceedingly aware that the stage was theirs, and all eyes were watching. 

After all, as they say, this was It. 

~~~~  
~~~~ 


	9. Fading

Title: High Treason   
Chapter: Nine   
Chapter rating: PG-13 - violence   
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale   
Notes: Please don't kill me? 

~Tomo~   
www.amberstone.net   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com   
~~~~~   


The first light was a soft blue color, a tiny orb that hovered busily in space like an angry firefly. _ /This Game is almost over./ _It said, with an almost disappointed tone. 

The second light was red, and looked more like smoke than any sort of insect. It's voice was hollow.** \So it is.\**

_/Rather more interesting than I thought it would be, old sport. You've played a remarkable round./_

**\Who will win?\**

_/Hard to say. Not that it matters. This has been a *close* round~_/ the voice sounded utterly satisfied. 

A metallic chuckle. **\Gloating doesn't become you, Old One. Roll your turn!\**

The blue 'light' flickered, and two very small, very complex dice hit the nonexistent ground and rolled a bit. **\....hm. Your sportsmanship is disgusting.\**

_/Let's finish this./_

Soft waves of laughter filled the un-place. 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

"Right over that rise of buildings is where they're stationed," Anathema told Aziraphale precisely. The angel nodded tiredly and glanced about - "Maybe that building across there?" the young woman pointed in suggestion. 

Aziraphale nodded and shifted Crowley's dead weight - he was still slung limply over one of the angel's proud shoulders. At least the embarrassing noises had stopped - the angel's throat was sore from fake coughs to cover the inappropriate words, though Anathema didn't seem to care. "Right. Thanks." 

The building seemed to have been some sort of restaurant, and Aziraphale let Crowley come down to rest behind the counter of the bar, pillowing his head on soft black wings. Crowley had ceased his moaning and his expression had dissolved into something akin to satisfaction that seemed, to the angel, to be almost more embarrassing. Aziraphale shook his head irritably and brushed black hair out of the demon's eyes. 

"I'm going now," he told Crowley. 

The demon didn't move. 

"To fight the Metatron. I may... I may not be successful." Aziraphale cleared his throat. "And I may not be precisely alive when you wake up - if you ever wake up." 

Very carefully the angel ran a finger down the side of Crowley's face, sighing softly. There were rough patches where scales were interlocked with flesh here and there on the demon's soft complexion, and endless, glassy planes of throat and chest that the angel had never looked at closely before - but when he did, now, he discovered that they were very much like his own, almost... 

Well, he reminded himself, letting his fingertips pause at Crowley's chin, they _were_ cast from the same mold. Crowley had been an angel once, and so it was natural that he seem familiar in appearance. It was natural that he should feel he _knew_ the body of the being before him... right? "Just so you know," he whispered softly, "I don't mind so much about it...about your... feelings." 

He cleared his throat, the confession going unheard. 

Crowley did stir faintly then, leaning into the angel's cool touch and mumbling something inaudible under his breath. Aziraphale smiled. "You surprised me when you told me. But..." He thought of Hastur, Anathema - God - Newt - "......I think maybe I'm the last one to figure it out. Funny how that happens sometimes." 

He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. "No. I guess it really isn't, is it?" 

With that, the angel hesitantly leaned forward and pressed his lips very softly to Crowley's cheek, just above a patch of darkened scales - then pulled away and sighed. "I wish..." 

No. Wishes were for people - or angels - who did not believe they were coming 'home'. 

Crowley was all the home he had really needed for six thousand years. 

"I hope I can get the courage up to tell you that when you're awake," the angel murmured with forced optimism and stood, his robes rustling faintly. 

_Crowley, in his dream world universes away, had the distinct impression that something important had just left him behind - but when he turned and gazed at a sleeping angel, he decided that he had everything he'd ever wanted right there._

_He touched his cheek, fingering the scales curiously. They felt...warm..._

_"Crowley?"_

_Oh, he had woken Aziraphale. "Mm...?" Crowley mumbled._

_"What's wrong?"_

_"I didn't mean to wake you." He allowed himself the luxury of pulling his angel closer and kissing soft lips._

_'Aziraphale' reached out with warm fingers to touch Crowley's face. "You look sad."_

_"I just....feel.... never mind. Go to sleep, it's nothing." He looked away. "It's nothing at all."_

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Anathema was waiting for Aziraphale behind a low laying wall, her eyes wide as she gestured silently. The angel gave her a blank look, and she rolled her eyes before pointing. "They're right over there - by the fountain. About twenty-five metres away." 

Aziraphale nodded, raised one hand, and whispered very softly the words that summoned his sword. It appeared in his hand, flaming quite like Aziraphale himself, as Anathema stared, unsure whether to be impressed or amused. 

Finally she managed to ask. "Um...what was that?" 

"This?" Aziraphale smiled faintly. "My sword. The Lord gave it to me, and promised -" 

"Not the weapon," she blinked, "the word. The one you just said." 

"The word?" Aziraphale mumbled it again, and Anathema began giggling madly. "What? That word is one of the holiest ever spoken, it summons the sword into my hands -" 

"But - " Anathema managed between smothered giggles, " - it sounds - " she bit down on her own sleeve, " - like a _chicken_ - " 

"A...chicken?" The angel looked shocked. 

" - or a goose - " 

"No!" 

" - not very quail-ish, though - " 

Aziraphale's face went purple with indignant, righteous anger. "How can you say that?" he immediately hissed back. "That was the name of one of the purest creatures of Eden! Beautiful birds with incredible plumage that perched in the canopy of short trees, calling their name..." 

"But..." 

"But nothing!" 

"Say it again, please?" Anathema wheezed. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat, and spoke very primly, as if to teach her a lesson in manners. 

"Buckaw.*" he said. 

Anathema rolled in the dirt, filled with mirth that she was unable to contain. Aziraphale gripped his sword nervously. Across the courtyard, the Metatron looked up - and the shit, as they say, it the fan.** 

~~~~   
_* The author would like to point out that what Aziraphale says in this conversation is quite true. Most of the Words of Power have been lost in the sands of time, the ones that remain with humankind are more powerful than anything the race has ever known. The buckaw birds were gentle, kind animals and fond of figs - they sang their sweet buckaw song to all of Eden before apples became a staple of people's diets. When humankind was ejected from the Garden, it was said these birds pined away in their sorrow and lost their lives, though their souls remained on earth in the form of their name - one word, one mighty word that now lives in the minds of a few lowly human families. Speak their name - and remember their love of purity, of song, and of life. Remember their brilliant colors, their faceted eyes, the fear they struck in the heart of other, less incredulous creatures - speak their name and *believe*_

_Buckaw._

_** Or, as some would say, the shit fountain-ed up in coffee colored geysers. Well, there's no accounting for taste._   
~~~~ 

_"Stand." _ Metatron commanded. _"Stand and show yourself, for your presence is known and it is useless to hide any longer."_

There were soft sounds of a heated argument behind the wall, and then Aziraphale stood, shifting nervously, wiping his palms on the front of his dusty robes. His hands were raised even with his head, and he held no weapon as he fled into the open. "Um. Yes, it's just me - you know, Aziraphale." A weak smile. "Hi." 

The Metatron beckoned Aziraphale forward, and the angel shifted nervously. "I like what you've done with the place," he said vaguely, feeling that some compliments were necessary and gesturing faintly to the plaza. Several members of the Metatron's angelic guard raised their firey weapons at the motion, and Aziraphale gulped. "Very.... diverse." 

_"There is a human soul behind that wall," _The Metatron told its guards. 

"No!" Aziraphale leapt on the words. "I mean - yes - but she has nothing to do with this. I sort of took advantage of her - not like that - and she told me where you were, but - being a beautiful, hopeful ruler of the Heavenly Kingdom, surely I may reason with you -" 

_"I am not a hopeful ruler. I am The Ruler."_

"O...of course. And.....God?" 

If the Metatron smiled, it was only displayed by a faint brightening of it's already brilliant light. _ "No more."_

Aziraphale stared. "...you mean...." No, he told himself sternly in his best English tone, God could not be dead, God would never die. This was a part of the ineffable plan - it had to be - and the knowledge strengthened the angel's will. "I am strong. I broke through your illusions. I have left C..Crawly to rot in them, and I have made my decision. 

"Metatron, I..." he stepped closer. "I want to tell you that I am no longer" - the lie was like bile in Aziraphale's throat - "willing to serve on Earth. I no longer wish to be associated with the old God and His ways. I want... your blessing," he whispered, with a voice like tires over gravel. 

One more lie and it would all be over. 

Perhaps for the third time in all of its creation, the Metatron underestimated someone. The younger angel did not know what about his own manners fooled the great being, the favorite of God - but somehow, he managed. Perhaps the Metatron did not think him capable of a lie, or perhaps it did not believe anyone would back away when faced with its own perfection and beauty - but whatever the reason, it stepped forward. _ "I would like to know how you freed yourself. And where the demon Crawly is now."_

"Certainly," Aziraphale whispered, tensed, and waited. 

The Metatron laid a glittering hand in his hair, and was suddenly pegged between the eyes by a very well-aimed stone. 

Aziraphale thanked Anathema for her aim as he moved. 

"Buckaw," whispered the angel, and drove his suddenly-heavy, burning blade into the Metatron's chest. 

For a very long moment there was silence, as every being in the plaza froze, all eyes on Aziraphale as he withdrew his sword and slashed down, hands slick with blood that shared the heat and consistency of burning oil. The sword rose once more, and slammed forward with righteous vengeance - or something like that. 

The Metatron's bodiless head - or at least what could be identified as being vaguely head-like, hit the ground with a sizzling thump. The remainder of his torso stood for a few brief heartbeats, wrapped around Aziraphale, before the two followed the tumbling path of gravity and lay writhing on the ground. 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Elsewhere, dice clicked, rolled, and paused. 

God's brilliant light flickered faintly. 

Lucifer laughed, showering molten sparks with the sound. 

In England, Newton Pulsifer looked up, feeling, for some reason, that someone needed his help. In the room next to him, Alli - less than one and sweeter than sugar - screamed in raw fear. 

Crowley felt his heart wrench in two as the image of his lover wavered in his arms. 

"....angel?" He asked, very softly, as his world began dissolving. 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Anathema leapt up even as Aziraphale struck, clambering over the wall towards the burning figures with her heart in her throat. The guards that had been so carefully guarding only moments before, were now engulfed by the task of watching the Metatron burn in a blaze of light that was suddenly quite a bit less Holy. 

Amidst the flames she could see Aziraphale's sword, still clutched in a burning hand. 

Anathema was a person of intuition, and it was screaming at her to back away, to let it go, to give in. Instead she plunged headlong into the flames, reached that sword and kicked it aside, then wrapped Aziraphale in her arms and pulled him away from the inferno. 

Two of the guards panicked and fled. One of them murmured about the End of Everything. Yet another offered Anathema a wet length of cloth, which she took without asking questions. 

Aziraphale was smoldering in a way that only a Holy Pyre can induce. One eye was gone, the other closed painfully, and skin - where skin was left - was brittle and red-brown, in places black. His wings were tattered remains of what Anathema could only presume was bone, his hair was cropped and thick with ash, and his entire body was dripping with silvery, steaming angel blood. 

"Aziraphale! Oh my - my - God - Aziraphale?!" 

He looked up and opened his one good eye, which twinkled rather cheerfully in the morbid firelight, and smiled. She almost choked in relief. 

"'m alright, Anathema." 

The young woman pressed the cool cloth against Aziraphale's chest and held it there - it was unnerving and frightening to watch the angel draw breath to speak, but never to breath. Then again, in his currant state, breathing might be an agony in itself - so she thanked Whoever for the small blessing. "Why... why did... that happen?" 

"He was God's favorite," Aziraphale sighed weakly, his voice a hissing death rattle. "And he deserved... such a beautiful ... holy ... pyre, to clean ... away his sins, I suppose." A weak cough. "He's forgiven in the inferno." 

"Damn it. Look at you - damn it. All of this for a stupid...a gamble, a game!" 

"It's alright," Aziraphale told her. "I'm an angel. My kind was created to play in games." 

Anathema looked stupefied, and paused in her soft strokes. "You mean you _knew_ God was throwing your life around on a pair of dice?" 

"Not in those words," Aziraphale looked wry, "No. But if I were Him, I would play." 

"You... shh. Don't talk. Crowley should be here any minute, the illusion should have shattered when the Metatron was destroyed. He'll know how to treat you." 

"Oh," said Aziraphale weakly. "I know all I need. I just need a very long rest." 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Crowley stood. 

He was in a bar of some sort. 

The first thing he considered was that he had been out drinking alone again - but that proved utterly impossible, as he was not writhing in the throes of a hangover. His second thought was along the lines of 'where the hell did my sexy angel meat get off to?' 

The room was deserted and bathed in a reddish glow, and he stepped gingerly over fallen bottles, rubbing his cheek faintly. "Aziraphale?" 

Nothing. "Aziiiiraphale...?" 

He moved to the door and paused as a sense of foreboding filled his mind. For no reason at all and yet for every reason he could think of, Crowley began to run. 

He did not have to go very far, because outside the door of the run-down building Crowley could see two very clearly outlined columns of light. 

.....no. 

No.... 

_NO._

Whatever inside of him that had been faintly worried was now panicking, and Crowley found himself unable to move, so terrified of what he would see when he rounded the next corner that his legs locked and he ended up tumbling to the ground. 

He closed his snake-like eyes and hissed. Black wings spread to the sky. 

And he flew. 

First, the brilliant, red-gold Pyre of a great and dead angel - a Pyre that Crowley had only seen once before in his lifetime, and never wished to see again. He could not venture nearer to the inferno without risking his own self - and he gave it a wide berth. Beside that was a smaller, silver-blue column - and in it were figures - 

He didn't want to speak. His lips moved for him as all thought shut down. "...angel?" 

It _was_ Aziraphale, laying with his head in the lap of a young woman, which some functioning portion of Crowley's mind identified as Anathema, a friend. She was crying, wiping his burnt face with a slice of robe and the angel.... the angel was tattered, bloody - 

- the angel was smiling in relief - 

- and fading away. 

"AZIRAPHALE!" 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

_/Checkmate./_

A pause, and then an unwilling concession.** \I suppose you are right. I've lost this round.\**

Red and blue lights twinkled thoughtfully. _/You know, this game cost me two very good angels./_

**\Well, you knew the risks.\**

_/It will be very difficult for my realm to function without the Metatron,/ _the first, blue-silver voice mourned._ /I would very much like another roll. Or two. Or three./___

**\Another roll?\**

**/I've won, after all, I deserve spoils./**

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Crowley woke up, and he was very cold. 

He shivered and pulled his wings up to his chest. 

- that is, pulled wings that were unnaturally soft against his body, breathed out in incredulous disbelief. 

He raised a hand to his face, and found that the scales were gone. "......white......?" 

_/Hello, Crawly./_

"Crowley." 

_/Crowley. Welcome back./_

"Where am I?" 

_/Limbo./_

"Aziraphale...." 

The voice was very soft and kind. _/...made a most remarkable sacrifice./_

"Why?" 

_/The Metatron needed to be destroyed./_

Crowley grasped at the threads of his sanity. "But...why him? Why _us_?" 

The verbal equivalent of a shrug. _/The dice chose you./_

"You and your fucking games," Crowley curled up against himself. "Wasting my time," he whispered. "......fucking wasting my life - wasting - my - or was that a part of your plan, too? Was my love something you planted for fun?" 

_/That was your own./_

"A small consolation, as you took everything else away from me." Had he not been afraid to move, Crowley would have spit in his disgust. 

_/Crowley.../_

"Don't speak to me." 

_/I have one roll left./_

"Give him back!" 

_/I cannot do that. It takes more than dice to bring back an angel./_

Crowley felt his hopes shrivel. 

_/If I make this roll, you will have a choice. If the numbers are right, you will have the option to become a full angel again. Your love and your devotion combined with your part in the Apocalypse and this... you are worthy, again./_

"You can take your angelic gifts and shove them right back up-" 

_/If the numbers are beyond right, if fate smiles on you, I may - may - be able to return things to the way they were before./_

Crowley sat straight up, and his blue-gold eyes sought about the darkness for a form to apply the voice he was hearing to. "Roll, then. That's all I want." 

_/It will take some...sacrifices./_

"Anything." 

The dice leapt across Crowley's field of vision, clinked softly together, and stopped. 

_/Now we see where you really belong./_

~~~~   
~~~~ 


	10. Finished

Title: High Treason   
Chapter: Ten   
Chapter rating: PG-13   
Coupling: Crowley/Aziraphale   
Notes: 

Well, this is the end. After much debate, I picked the ending I felt best fit this story. Thank you so much to everyone whose commentary has helped to build and finish this ever so long fanfic! It's 86 pages long, now, and I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I have. 

~Tomo~   
www.amberstone.net   
knivesnomiko.pitas.com   
~~~~~   
~~~~   
~~~~ 

Crowley wasn't sure whether or not he wanted to open his eyes. He could remember things - so many things - and most of them felt like scenes out of some kind of nightmare. Some of them involved Aziraphale, others.... 

He tucked himself more tightly against the softness beneath him. What....? "Where am I?" 

Okay. Very, very cautiously he reached out with searching fingers, found the edge of what seemed to be his bed, right where it normally was. That was good. His pillow smelled unused, another check, he was wearing clothing.... The light seemed right, gentle and not direct, just how it always felt on nights he bothered staying in his apartment. 

So overall, it was safe to bet that he was in his flat. 

Crowley opened his eyes. 

Yes, it was his room. He sat up, and looked around. 

The room was orderly - not the way he'd cleaned and repaired things, but orderly in a manner that suggested it had never been lived in. The picture of Aziraphale that hung across from the bed, painted and pristine, was as perfect as the day it had been posed. Crowley cleared his throat, pleased that his voice was the same it had always been, and frowned. "The dice..." 

Dice. God. Aziraphale - a lump rose in the demon's throat. There had been a choice, a final roll - what had the answer been?__

_~/Now we see where you really belong./~_

"Where I really belong..." The possible outcomes, he remembered, were remaining as an angel or getting Aziraphale back. 

Crowley leapt out of the bed, scrambling across his carefully made-up room to the telephone settled neatly on the desk. There were no messages blinking. 

His hands hesitated. 

What if Aziraphale didn't answer? What then? How could Crowley live his..... his time out without the angel's company? The demon pulled away from the phone, staring at the gray-black plastic as if it would bite him. What if he punched in the familiar number and was connected to an utter stranger, in a world where Aziraphale no longer existed? What if it just kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing.... 

Crowley glared at himself and viciously punched in Aziraphale's phone number. He let the speaker phone ring. 

It rang. 

What if Aziraphale did answer, would the angel remember their adventure? The demon shifted and ran a hand through his hair, staring at the blinking 'charge' light on the telephone's stand. 

It rang. 

Or more importantly, would he remember Crowley's confession or emotions that he still felt with all of his heart? 

A third echoing ring. 

What had happened between the two of them? If God had meant to set things back the way they had been before, wouldn't Crowley be unable to remember as well? 

A fourth. 

What if Aziraphale did answer, but didn't want to see Crowley, because he was afraid of lust - afraid of love - afraid of a demon now that he had actually sinned -__

_Ring._

What if Aziraphale had fallen? What if God had sent him back only to punish him for killing Hastur, the Metatron.... 

_Ring._

Something heavy settled in the demon's chest as the melancholy, blank ring repeated itself, droning on in the buzzing silence of his apartment. "Pick up the phone, angel," he whispered, faintly. "Pick up the phone."__

_Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring._

Anthony Crowley was not a patient man. After ring twenty-two and a half he knocked the phone sideways across the room and watched without satisfaction as it spontaneously combusted there on the floor. He reached for his jacket. 

~~~~ 

The Bentley was not outside, and he supposed that was correct - hadn't he left it at the club on his last night on earth? Aziraphale had, he recalled with a faint smile, been a bit put out at having to order a taxi and carry his unconscious friend about. Swearing at his own mistake, the demon began walking - and in seconds, running. 

He ran through cold puddles of disgusting, half-melted snow, past city-folk who were moving slowly in the early morning, nursing steaming cups of coffee or hot chocolate and ignoring Crowley completely. That was the way it was, when the demon didn't want to be seen... 

Like a bat out of hell - or a demon out of Heaven - Crowley fled his flat and moved through the filling highways. Sometimes on the sidewalks, sometimes jumping over a car and moving in the less crowded street 

The bookshop was still there. 

_'Okay,'_ the demon told himself, _'It's alright. He probably didn't answer the phone... that's all. He's there.'_ With shaky hands Crowley tried the door and found that it was locked. 

He shortly added breaking and entering onto his list of sins. 

Inside was perfectly normal, the books were stacked in what he supposed was their usual order, nothing could be heard save for the occasional shuffle of a ruffled page - Crowley moved through the downstairs, past the dusty cash register and to the stairwell. "Aziraphale?" He called, looking up. 

There was nobody in the kitchen, or the study, or the small closet that held only a few moth-eaten coats, so Crowley took to the stairs. Every little creak, every step felt like a mile, filled with doubts and fears - He glanced in the room to the left, where an old workbench was settled in the center of the room, covered with damaged books. The bedroom door was closed. "Aziraphale?" 

He twisted the knob, shoved the door inwards, and did a double take. 

There _was_ somebody in the bed, but it was definitely not Aziraphale. 

Crowley took a few halting steps nearer until he was standing beside the bed, staring down at its occupant. The man was young - very young, and had a head of long, chestnut-brown hair that was splayed across the pillow. The demon wanted to die. 

Had Aziraphale been replaced? Erased? 

The young man rolled slightly, as if sensing the snake-eyes that were drinking his form in. Moments later his eyelids were flickering open, and he met Crowley's gaze with a sleepy smile. "Good morning, my dear demon." 

There was no mistaking those eyes or the prim tone of voice, and Crowley felt his legs give out beneath him. He ended up leaning on the bed, on his knees, staring hungrily up at those beautiful, cerulean eyes.... "Aziraphale....? Is it really you?" 

"Yes." 

"You look....different." 

The angel nodded solemnly, fluffing the pillows behind him and leaning up against them. "I asked the Lord to give me a new body... something that wasn't... you know, stained." 

Crowley sighed gustily against his hands. There were a thousand questions swirling around in his mind, but none of them seemed to form on his lips - he wound up stammering, unable to break away from the gaze of the angel. "Then... he forgave...." 

"Everything," Aziraphale said, happily. "It never happened. He reset things... Hastur and the Metatron were lost, but he tweaked everything just a bit. Said they were too much fun to play games with to lose now," the angel found that a bit distasteful. Crowley felt his heart pound at the faint pout that crossed Aziraphale's suddenly very-young visage. "He has strange taste in bodies, though." 

"I don't mind," Crowley said immediately, and wished he hadn't. 

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment, then looked down discreetly at his hands. "I didn't think you would... But... Crowley, you could have stayed an angel. You would have been so happy! Why didn't you...?" 

"I couldn't live without you." The demon told him very simply. "I'm not cut out to be an angel. I'm cut out to be with an angel - with you." 

"Crowley..." Aziraphale looked away. 

Here goes, the demon thought miserably. Here's where I get shot down like a duck during open season. 

He took a deep breath and prepared to be annihilated. 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

There was a very soft knock on the door, which the exhausted occupant of the bed attempted to ignore, until it sounded twice more and demanded a response of some sort. 

"Go away," Newt shouted into his pillow without moving from the warm covers. "I'm asleep." 

"You don't sound asleep," the voice was feminine, and full of secrets and mirth that only a really expert woman can achieve. It was also disturbingly familiar, because the speaker was supposed to be dead. "You sound awake." 

Newt's eyes shot open. He exhaled. No, that was not Anathema, he was dreaming, he was imagining it, he was asleep - 

The door swung open, and despite himself he rolled over to stare at the woman - who was his wife - standing in the doorway. "A....aaaa...." 

Anathema cracked a very wide smile and closed the door behind her with a soft click. For a long moment she stood, hands behind her back, a soft smile on her lips. "I'm home." 

Newt jerked up, pulling the covers across his chest in wide-eyed, white-knuckled shock. "You're a g-ghost!" 

"No! I've _been_ a ghost. I'm alive again, now. Don't worry, I checked at the hospital, I'm not in their records as a patient, the tracks are covered. Alli is sleeping soundly, I checked on her - that leaves just you. Don't I get a welcome-home kiss?" 

"But...you're dead..." 

"I *was* dead. You'd never believe me if I told you," Anathema stretched lithely and closed the gap between herself and the bed, settling on the edge and smoothing down the dress she was wearing. 

Newt rubbed his eyes furiously, and reached for his glasses beside the bed. "I don't believe you anyway... You're dead. I killed you - I was driving - " 

"Oh, Newt!" Anathema reached out hopefully, and Newt took her hand, she could feel his trembling and closed her eyes. "You thought it was your fault? No! Not at all! It wasn't time for me to die at all. I was called. remember when Aziraphale came to visit us?" 

Newt nodded weakly, running his thumb across her knuckles as if he couldn't believe he was really holding her hand again. As if they might disappear if he so much as blinked. "He went after Crowley, who had been taken down to hell, and then they both went back to Heaven to do battle. God called me up to assist Crowley and Aziraphale in fighting a traitor amongst the angels, I pegged God's Favorite Angel between the eyes with a rock, and we won. So he let me come back." 

Newt's jaw fell open - for some reason, this sounded a bit too much like something his lover would get involved with to be a lie, or a mistake, or a dream. "For real." 

Anathema moved up against him, and he curled an arm around her shoulders, inhaling deeply. It had to be her, it even smelled like her, soft and a bit like roses.... 

"Absolutely. Would I lie to you?" 

Newt felt like crying and laughing at the same time, and words fell acutely short of describing his situation. He did a little bit of both, pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead and whispering against her neck. "You're back..." 

"Yes." If he had been able to meet her eyes, he would have noticed that Anathema was crying, too. "I'm back. And I would very much like a kiss." 

Newt pulled her against him like a drowning man clings to a life preserver and gave her precisely what she wanted. 

~~~~   
~~~~ 

Aziraphale stared at Crowley very hard, licked his lips, and spoke deliberately. "The Metatron forced us into our deepest fantasy when we re-entered Heaven... Do you remember...?" 

Crowley nodded, clenching his fists. Of course he remembered, it had been bloody wonderful, and memories like that did not easily fade. "Yeah." 

"Um. You were dreaming about me," the angel was blushing furiously as he spoke. "You said my name. Among... other things. Er." 

It was Crowley's turn to feel the heat of embarrassment. "Well, yeah. I'm a demon, Aziraphale! For me, paradise is nothing more than you." 

The angel thought about it for a moment. "Oh." 

"And I'm not sorry," Crowley added, staring moodily at the angel before him. "Not at all. I wouldn't take anything I said back, whether you heard it or not. If you want me to keep my distance, I will, but it will take me a long time to change how I feel... it took long enough for me to fall for you, forgetting will be-" 

Aziraphale cut him off, fiddling with the edge of the blanket in his lap. ".....you... you don't.... Don't really have to forget about it..." 

The demon stopped cold, mouth half-open in mid-rant. ".....what?" 

"Forget about it. I mean, I don't really - want you too - I..." Aziraphale took a deep breath and met his eyes again, turning an even deeper shade of red. Rather like a turnip, or a tomato. "My paradise had you in it, too.... in fact, it was just you. We ate dinner, and walked along a lake, and you..." Redder still, as if there was more that he wasn't saying, "wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed my forehead, and... and took me home.... but... I liked it." 

Crowley stared. Aziraphale squirmed. 

"When... When I talked to God, I asked, and ... he said he didn't mind. He said he could fix things so that nobody would bother us, and I told him that would be nice ... So... so if you wanted to... maybe.... kiss me now and then, I wouldn't mind so much." His face was hidden by a curtain of silk-brown hair that looked unbearably soft. "If you... wanted..." 

Anthony Crowley stood, anticipation coiling in the pit of his stomach like liquid hot iron. Aziraphale didn't move, and the demon took a stumbling half-step towards the bed, licking his lips. "Could I kiss you... now?" 

The angel looked up, eyes wide, and Crowley settled himself on the bed, facing the angel. They stared at one another for a long moment. Somehow the demon knew that if he gave in to this - if he kissed Aziraphale - he would never be able to stop. It was the Point of No Return. 

He didn't care. He didn't want to return. 

Very carefully Crowley reached out and brushed dark bangs out of Aziraphale's eyes, letting his fingers rest on angelic cheekbones with a sentimentality that belied his demonic nature. Very slowly, he pressed his lips to Aziraphale's, and watched the angel's eyes drift closed. 

It was a very chaste kiss - until Crowley tilted Aziraphale's chin up and the angel gasped a bit, leaving the demon at an advantage - which he used, utterly. 

Kissing Aziraphale was like nothing he had ever done before. It wasn't as much a kiss as an utter sense of everything that he'd ever lost forever, everything he'd never be again. The angel tasted like perfection and purity, and the demon thought if he wasn't careful, he might drown in the sensation... Crowley ran his fingers through the angel's hair, snaking his tongue across untested purity - and enjoying every moment of it. 

For Aziraphale, the sensation of being kissed was an indulgence into everything that had always been forbidden to him. Every excess, every tease, every biting comment or fear, every bit of him that had desired to but never strayed - Crowley was all of that in one package, like a perfect compliment to what he had. 

The angel was moaning softly by the time the kiss ended and Crowley pulled away, eyes filled with baffled shock. 

"Wow," he said. 

Aziraphale nodded mutely, and Crowley leaned in for another kiss - but was stopped by a single finger pressed gently to his lips. 

"You know," the angel said, as Crowley began to lick his finger with serpentine strokes of a very wet, forked tongue, "I... I'm not sure we need to hurry s-so much." 

"Mmm?" 

"I mean, we have forever... and I'm... I mean..." Aziraphale was very distracted by the demon's actions, "It's going to take me a while to sort of get used to this, you know." 

Crowley nodded and placed a kiss on the tip of the abused finger. "Well, we're even, because it's going to take a while for me to start thinking of you as a brunette." 

Aziraphale smiled a perfect smile, leaning back against the pillow. "You don't mind?" 

"Of course not, angel," said Crowley, and kissed him again. 

It was better than he had ever imagined.   


~~~~~   
~~~~~   
_Le end!_   
~~~~~   
~~~~~ 


End file.
